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.

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.

Religions on the River

wp-image-1616951298jpg.jpgPollution is the river. It shouldn’t be this way, but that’s what’s become of the world. The Egyptians had the Nile. We have the Hudson River. I remember growing up and being told never to swim in it, because GE had been contaminating it for years. The Chemicals allegedly seeped into the river bed. At the time, they were discussing ‘dredging’, which inevitably occurred. The thing about it is that it had to occur. It had to be done, because nobody gives a shit about the river. It holds no significance to our lives and thus, serves only the purpose that we attach to it. I’ve come to the conclusion that this is the greatest danger of human existence. It’s a problem that’s plagued mankind since the beginning of time. We can stare at the stars in wonder, contemplating the vastness of space and the universe and still maintain a certain blindness to it all, when we deny our rightful humility.

Hubris. The Egyptians had the Nile River to thank for the growth of their society. If not for the river, they would’ve receded into nothing, as is the story with so many cultures. Many cultures had nothing to sustain them and disappeared. This wasn’t to be the fate of the Egyptians. The river blessed them with the boon of tremendous wealth and prosperity. They fed from it and expanded, becoming so successful that we still teach about them in school. It’s only the successes in history that concern us. If we counted all the failures of human civilization, well… history books aren’t meant to be that long.

Our river hasn’t blessed us with much. It serves as a picturesque background for some who want a decent picture. That’s about all we have to offer. It separates us from Albany, which is sometimes nice. When I try to think of what it’s brought to the region, I must go elsewhere and that’s not what I want. I want to determine the significance of the river to our culture. The problem is… what if we’re one of those cultures that isn’t worth mentioning? What if I’m writing a bunch of nonsense about a small town that’s just gonna fold into the recesses of the bitter, sardonic matters that history has no need to discuss?

I can accept that we don’t deserve a page in the history books, but still, a slight reference might be enough to help someone out in the world. That’s all I hope for, truly and desperately. I hope that there’s someone out there feeling like his spot in the universe is not-so relevant and that maybe there’s something he’d better do than make it a bit better. I can do all this imagining right where I took this photo. I can look out to the river from a crick that runs through Riverfront Park. You can listen to the cars driving passed along the highway above, while the water makes its way from a narrow crick that splits our city into several pieces. You can consider the significance and maybe, if you think long enough, you’ll understand that the answers you seek, simply put, just aren’t there.

All praise be to the river!

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…

Tree of Penance

Forsaken, my flesh soaked in sin, I took a worn path that led me away from the world. I felt poisonous, no good to anyone. I deserted the world, as I felt it’d done to me. Reassuring myself that this was all a dream, I climbed over brush and pulled both thorn and weed from my being. The pain felt all too real, but I maintained the illusion. This had to be a dream. This could not be my life. This had to be a painful nightmare, something to shock me back to a lush reality full of happiness and bliss. The trees and brush cleared and I saw only grass for miles. I walked along the earth, with the wind to guide me, whispering over the empty field. Black clouds warned of impending doom.

Lo, I saw a tree standing alone in the distance. I came to it and saw ‘Tree of penance’ carved crooked through the bark. I rub my hand against the carving, rough lines etched into the wood; they illuminated crimson with my touch. The tree came apart before my eyes, suspended before me, extending its being to encompass my pain. The tree wrapped itself around me, covering my massive form to squeeze me inside. This is my penance. I look out unto the world, belonging to this tree, my only sanctuary. The world would be protected from me.

From this point, I became master of the universe. I saw everything and was within everything; for what I saw, the world knew that I was watching over them. They felt my touch within their lives. We were one, for this moment in time. I felt at peace with the cosmos and the world that made me this evil creature.

All that could ruin it was the divine fates. They ruin everything. A girl came creeping into this world, with a little red hood and a picnic basket, on her way to grandma’s house, no doubt. I had the memory, a thought that this could only be a dream. She came and knock on the tree and I refuse to answer. She entered anyway. I ran as fast as I could within the tree. Its bounds were unfathomable. Its dark recesses expanded beyond sight, beyond reason. She came, whispering her mantra that echoed within the dark world. “What big eyes… what big teeth?” I cried out for her to leave. I demanded it. The world let it be shown. This was my sin.

Splayed innards. Flesh and form sawed off from self. This is my sin. Another bloody demonstration of my purpose. Tree of penance could no longer protect me. It was time to move on.

Origin Unknown

Some can never understand the reason for a city that hardly anyone knows and why, in his infinite wisdom, a benevolent God would put within this city the ‘Nexus of the Universe’. Questions like this will go unanswered. It’s not our job to question, but to enjoy the bounty that the world hath wrought. Winding down East Street, there is a little known path, a cul de sac to the untrained eye, but if you follow the path you’ll find it. You’ll find this place, for which many great bards have written, for which weary travelers would cross for a moment of rest if this was another time.

Follow down Circle Street, to where the woods seem to be exceeding their limits over the road, encroaching on the world and threatening to take it all back. It’s a place for which man separated from his bestial nature and although we promised never to return, we were never fit to make such a promise. We always return. If you dare to return, you must follow the trail between the trees, which leads a winding uphill path. Humanity tried to bind this road. Evidence of this failed attempt comes in the form of a big black pipe, where it remains buried in the ground. Climb over it and continue. Their failure is not your own. It only takes a few minutes to reach this place. It’s so simple that one should question whether this is truly the Nexus of the Universe or if in reality such a thing can be measured.

Nestled between the outcrop of woods and the edge of the city, which folds above and beneath it, is the falls. You can sit at the bottom and find contentment or you can move along and find the Nexus. It sits at the top, where the water is much calmer. At this point, the only hint to what is happening beneath is the rush of water crashing against itself. You can look out in front and see the water leading into a stream and heading out towards the river or you can stare straight ahead and see the city. It stands before you with such a perfection that can only be noticed from the Nexus. If you move from this spot you’ll lose it, but if you remain for a few minutes you’ll notice that all sense of what this city is or what it should be disappears. From this point, you can truly appreciate where you’ve come from and where you’ll be in the future. This is the nexus. We all need this experience once in our lives.

No Fracking In The Wasteland

Empire Generating Co.

Empire Generating Co.


Controversial 178-mile-long parallel pipelines proposed for NY’s Hudson Valley/Northern NJ

Background Details

Ever since I was young, I knew that Somalia was a shit-hole. I’ve never been there and its existence has no bearing on my life, but I knew it. It was something that stuck in my mind, although I couldn’t explain my reasoning. I just knew, without any idea of the history or culture of this far away place. I was young and it was easier to plant ideas in my head, even stupid ideas, which I would politely accept. I had a lot of questions, because at that same time I was only curious about the place because the United States had to intervene in the area. When that intervention turned ugly we left. That’s about the breadth of my knowledge.

Aid still filters into most countries that we helped destroy. Money is one of the great Band-Aids of our history. I never knew that either as a boy.

Why am I discussing a third-world country in reference to a small town that nobody knows within the United States? Because it’s a prime example of what happens once those in power have what they want. This isn’t a Somali problem. This is happening in our backyards… MY backyard… LITERALLY. They come, like conquistadors, as in the Spanish to the Aztecs, who claimed to be ‘blessing’ the heathen indigenous cultures with Christianity, before they perpetrated the most extensive genocide in history. They’ll claim to be ‘providing opportunities’, but their “opportunities” are akin to those that a shark brings to the Pilot Fish. They’ll enter your town, like a virus infecting a healthy cell. They’ll devour everything vital and leave your town as a hollowed-out husk. Somalia is a reminder that some corporations will do anything to maintain profit-margins, justifying their means, but for surrounding areas it means stealing and corrupting everything that makes you vital.

In North Dakota, (where the link at the top opens) the expeditions for Bakken oil have led to the expulsion of 275,000 tons of methane per year.. http://www.noaa.gov/north-dakota%E2%80%99s-bakken-oil-and-gas-field-leaking-275000-tons-methane-year  For those who don’t know, methane is bad. http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2006/08/060829-methane-warming_2.html

In Hoosick Falls, New York just a few months ago Saint-Gobain Performance Plastics and Honeywell International perpetrated the same injustice and the city hasn’t been able to use their water without the fear of infecting themselves with harmful carcinogens. https://www.epa.gov/ny/hoosick-falls-water-contamination  The company, Saint-Gobain Performance Plastics and Honeywell International, manufactured plastic in the region. The same chemicals to manufacture plastic went into their water. It’s troubling, because we assume we’re safe and don’t suspect that those putting chemical agents into our water are our own corporations and government! I could put another link for Flint, Michigan, where the government and corporations were culpable in poisoning their people, but we should all know by now… and I’ve put too many links already…. and really… there are just so many links that deserve to be shared.

Walking Columbia Turnpike, you see two steam towers behind a red-brick building with busted windows and graffiti painting some of its walls. The building is still functional, but doesn’t look like much. It belongs to B.A.S.F., one of the few companies remaining in our city. Behind it is Empire Generating Co, where they use natural gas to generate energy between Rensselaer, East Greenbush, Albany and Troy. Before today, I didn’t know much about them. They were just there, in the back of the city and in the back of my mind. It’s too quiet in this place. Traffic is mostly tankers and eighteen-wheelers. They carry over another bridge into what remains of our ‘industrial park’, where the remnants of once great monoliths still stand.

When I think of Somalia now, ages from where I was when the United States first intervened, I think of desperation. You can look now to the facts: 13th worldwide in death rate per year, 3rd in maternal mortality rate and infant mortality, male life expectancy at 50.Around the same time that I learned about Somalia, I also learned about the glorious history of the Hudson River. General Electric poisoned that years ago, dumping polychlorinated biphenyl, which was once used in most coolants, for which the dredging has only just begun. Corporations tried to kill us years ago and have been tirelessly trying to kill our species for years. In a new effort to put the final nail in the coffin of our fair city, the ‘Pilgrim Company’, has proposed constructing a 178 mile long pipeline from New Jersey and up through New York state.

Background Details

Then, again… maybe this is too desperate a thing for a simple-minded person like myself to understand. There’s so much information to sort through. I just heard about this pipeline and my mind went wild. I don’t even know HOW I got on the subject of Somalia. I’d hate to judge it from the outside… I’m sure it’s GREAT. Then again, experience is the greatest teacher. But… if that’s the case… when do we learn to stop treating the world like a toilet? Maybe that’s the lesson… the world is your toilet!


Stewarts vs. a Market Place in Cairo

Stewart's ShopCulture, transmigration and imitation in all forms. These are lesser, yet still very important points to the spectrum of human evolution. We bump into each other on the way to making our empires and the story unfolds. Kill or be killed; fight or flee; enslave, destroy, learn from one another, remain ignorant and rot with the weeds of history. I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.I’m sitting in the closest thing to a cafe in this town, my local Stewart’s Shop. It’s the one point I’m able to identify where everyone meets. Imagine Damascus in antiquity, where traders, warriors and prophets from all races, for this brief moment in time, crossed paths. They’d hear foreign tongues, but in this place THEY were the foreigners. How powerful and humbling it must be to see yourself in the light of ‘the outsider’… powerful, humbling and terrifying.

I don’t come here often, but feel the need to come this time in an effort to ‘count the forms’. How many forms of transmigration can I find in this simple town? So much hope and possibility went with these wanderers and it was all because of this one place. The Stewart’s in Rensselaer epitomizes this principle to the smallest degree. It’s a microcosm of Damascus. In a small town it’s the same ideas every day. It’s the same people talking about the same shit with the same view point.

Behind the counter, I see a beautiful young girl, most likely in her early twenties, with light brown hair. Three people wait in line. She makes eye-contact with them all, but it’s such an impersonal coercion of something  intimate. I stare, like a creep, from the corner. I see the weight of something almost sinister. It’s hard to believe, but it makes more sense why she can’t seem to offer them the courtesy of a fake smile. Her eyes flutter from one person to the next, impatiently seeking release from this false intimacy with people she’d rather not get to know. She blinks from them to the register, closing her eyes for the longest second I can count and back to them, to the money, to the bags, have a nice day, end of story. I note a mark in pen on her right hand between the thumb and index finger. It looks like this   ;   and I know it’s something that those with something dark in their past are meant to share. It symbolizes a pain them that has gone unspoken for so long that they express it, as in a Scarlet Letter. It’s such a personal request done in such an impersonal way. It seems so desperate. It seems like suffering is hard to count.

Count the forms… right

An old man sips his coffee and offers her the propriety of idle chatter. She fake smiles. I feel a cold terror wash over me, the same terror I felt as a boy when the monster finally lept out of the water to claim its final victim. By this point, I couldn’t tell which of them was the monster. The way her face moves into the ajar, ghastly grin of fake approval and joy is horrid and disgusting and I wish him gone for forcing her to do it. He sips his coffee and offers her a compliment on preparing it. Their coffee is greasy, but I’m not a devout coffee drinker. He wears an old, beat-up baseball cap and white shirt that’s covered in dirt and torn under his right armpit. His blue jeans are the same, dirty and torn at the knee.

He’s there talking to her for so long even I feel her discomfort. It ends when a few of his friends walk up to the picnic table outside. They wave to him, bearing their treasured cigarettes already burning. He offers a polite tip of his baseball cap and goes outside. The girl shows no signs of relief. She goes about working, straightening loose cigarette packs from the container and walking to the back.

Outside, I see three old men and one woman. One is our friend from before, while the others are regulars who come to enjoy their coffee, along with a few dozen cigarettes. They meet to discuss the business of the city, as well as old memories that might’ve come to mind. One of the men scrapes together change for another coffee, pulling it from his pockets, one piece at a time. They discuss the weather and how warm it was yesterday, claiming it’s only going to get hotter today. For some reason, this is neither proof for or against ‘global warming’, nor is it proof of ‘end-times’ or the coming resurrection. One of the men claims to have stopped going to church years ago, while the others shout at him in good fun to condemn him as a ‘blasphemer’.

Another old man approaches, providing more idle chatter for the group to digest, before heading inside for his coffee. He takes a seat in one of the booths. He spends fifty dollars on ‘scratch-offs’, of which he wins back ten. One step closer. You lose for now, but the trick is to keep playing in the same losing way, until that lucky moment when you win it all. The mind of a gambler is not so hard to understand. It’s the same with those who pray for world peace. Keep moving in the same wrong direction until it becomes the right. Always reach towards that impossible future.

In between all of these forms are those unremembered. People come in and out in such a flash, a brief moment in time that they hardly seem worth mentioning. They buy gas, grab a soda, a pack of cigarettes and are gone. They hold no other significance, but to catch the eye, like a glimmer of light flashing before my eyes. They offer no conversation, just off to do their business. They aren’t rude… some of them are, but not all. They’re just people moving through the forms of the cosmic dance, being led by whatever force that might govern this world. From my seat in Stewart’s I cannot dare label such a force… but to give it a name… just sounds hollow.

Trade is what made Damascus great. It was the center of everything. You couldn’t get where you were going without going through Damascus. I wish I could’ve gone before our corporate overlords destroyed it. Just another great city I’ll never get to see. I think of cities far away. I think of Stewart’s shops in distant worlds, like a Stewart’s in Hong Kong, with different old people gathering, like animals to a watering hole in the Sahara. All forms of life, proof of it… bringing them together… and all I can do is count.

Decadent Monoliths

Rensselaer_Rail_Station_8_930x470_72dpiThere’s nothing that can epitomize the transitory state of existence for this city’s history than the train. Even as we exist in this ever-changing state, the train is our one constant. No matter how many people leave this city it’s always there. It’s our one key that gives us entry into the world and yet, for all it seems to offer it seems to deliver the opposite. This town seems to be shrinking, while everything around us expands.

The train is a utility, not of the city, but of everyone and anyone that needs to get where they’re going. People use the train, but they have no use for this city. This city to them is just a place with a train-station. They go home, far away from here and don’t give us a second thought. This city means nothing to them, because it has nothing within its bounds to sustain them. They retreat to their homes far away from us. This city only has attachment for those who were born here. The train allows outsiders to enter our city without needing to stay; thusly, we maintain our status as nothing more than a ‘way station’ for all who wish to escape to another place. People come and they go, so that they might provide for their families. This city has no sustenance for them. We have nothing more to offer, except a route to bigger cities that might get people the financial security they desire. It’s something we provide or, in truth, something the train provides.

This area needs the train as a means to establish a connection with bigger cities, without bringing the clutter that working alongside a ‘big city’ demands. We have not the resources to create a big city in this area. There aren’t so many jobs in the area that people can work so close to home; some need to escape to the city and return home with the essential monetary gains their families need. It’s perfect for those with degrees, so they may stay in the area, while still filling vacancies in high operating businesses.

Now, as to how this affects our fair city, well, it’s kinda like something in your house that everyone can use and benefit from, except for you. It cuts the city in half, with its hub sitting in the center of the town. It creates for our city a necessity for more roads to keep traffic out of its way. Everything flows by the will of this structure, for a city in which it has become mostly benign. It provides for many in the city jobs, which are plentiful, although within the city itself there’s nothing that can profit from having such a resource. It’s amazing that more businesses aren’t just propped up and sustained, but there aren’t enough visitors that want to come to the area. Most people leave for the bigger cities to have their fun and only return for rest or out of obligation. This city, to most, is nothing more than a way station for weary travelers to enter for only a moment, before leaving for places they really would like to be.

Rensselaer became the obvious depository for the train, as Union Station cluttered too much of Albany. There are few accommodations in either place, but fewer still in Rensselaer. Still, the area needed the blessing to their industries, hotels and various accommodations. The outlying areas have plenty to offer. There’s nothing more for Rensselaer, except for the train. I;ve often wondered what it provides us then, besides a reason to exist. I’ve always thought of this place as a suburb of the greater area, either Albany or East Greenbush, although I doubt either wants to claim us. We’re just our own. We exist for others to exist.

The more you look at the anomaly of the train-station, the more you wonder if there’s no other purpose that waits for our fair city in the future. The train seems to provide for us, in its own way, a subsistence, allowing us to persist, yet never to thrive. Society was so amazed once by the technology of the locomotive, but lately nobody seems to be paying attention to the advances in the industry. If only they’d get here sooner… our subsistency might be at stake! We’re not allowed such decadence! The train connects us to the world, but we don’t see much of the world. We’re left with this connection, assured that it’s still holding us in place within this meager gathering of tribes. We seem to be marginalized, because it comes as no surprise that if the train didn’t exist neither would we.