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.

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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.

Duality Principle (Happy Late Xmas)


The thing about the other guy is that, although he doesn’t share a single view in common with you or your friends or your family, he does still exist. I know this is a mind-blowing concept, but it’s very real. This is the only truth that one must understand, as if your life depends on it, because ignoring Duality Principle is to doom yourself and those around you to suffer. It’s Duality Principle that allows the world to exist. It’s the wisdom that shows all the variety in the world in one shot, something that the eye, heart, soul or mind cannot conceive. Our minds can’t process it with a few seconds of contemplation… even if you found a ‘dank meme’ that really speaks to you on Facebook. You won’t read it from this blog and understand. You have to feel it. You have to think about it for more than five seconds. You have to truly, deeply understand.

Duality Principle is what allows other people to have differing views from yours, which is most likely due in part to some miracle that allows the world to move on, despite our political, religious and/or contradictory views. It’s an amazing thing, you see, because… apparently the world will continue despite other people not believing what you believe. It’s truly a miracle… almost as if… your views hold no weight when measured against the burdensome necessity of everyday existence. Who would’ve thought? Let’s take an example: I consider myself to be more liberal leaning, while there are also people in the world who believe that Conservative doctrine is more easily accessible. Now, there are even others who don’t give a shit about either of our views and come up with their own interpretations… yet, the world moves on. The Principle continues still, as in when one viewpoint is put into practice, the others still exist.

Have I lost anyone? One political ideology being in power doesn’t mean that another is erased, although, certainly, when lunatics take control, there can be several attempts to eliminate other cultures, still, the elimination of a thought is not a negation. Simply put, in attempting to destroy, well… destruction isn’t the answer.

Let’s think about destruction, especially of thoughts that we find troublesome. Now, in killing everyone who doesn’t think like you, what have you done? In theory, you’ve erased them from the planet, although we present alternatives like an afterlife, their forms go through an amazing transformation into death. First, for any good lunatic obsessed with his own ideology, there comes a necessity for mass graves. So, you kill everyone who doesn’t think like you… and you stick them in this massive grave. Over time, there bodies break down, being digested by the earth, scavengers maybe, rotten weeds tearing apart their softening tissue, eating away at them. They grow from within, becoming one with the earth, put to rest allegedly, put to peace. What if your enemy presents itself as a growing flower from a mass grave? Do you keep stomping, because it might represent something that you can’t stand for? How far do you break it down? Do you stomp until it collapses on a molecular level? Then still, a nano-ish level? How hard do you have to work, until your way of thinking is the only way? How long until that weed that grows strong from eating your dead enemies strangles you in your sleep?

I’m not one to think that your enemies will haunt you in the afterlife or even that karma will catch up to you. Eventually, you’ll die to… and you’ll return to the earth, whence you came. You’ll be consecrated with those you killed, maybe not in the same grave, but still your time will come. You’ll be like other dictators, who either die in bunkers with a bullet between their teeth or warm in their beds… or tortured and dragged around the street for the world to see. Either way, you make it to the same earth you consecrated with the blood of those who held a few views that weren’t your own. Hence, therein lies… or truths, Duality Principle.

May every holiday be better than the next, until you meet your enemies in the end!

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.

ShitHouse Scripture

Image result for bathroom graffiti artThe world is littered… polluted with untold beauty. Society is full of morose, psychotic… compassionate people. These are the people who hide… lurk within the crevices… in plain sight. The sociopath. It’s levels far below that of a man who kills thirty or forty people with a sniper rifle. Still, it’s a level of antisocial behavior that we’ve yet to comprehend. We see it. We write it off as another wacko and we go about our day. It’s there for our thorough examination, yet the more you sit and question the further down the rabbit hole you go. Understanding the mind of a person who does this… just wondering why can leave you drained. Why does someone… draw this? There is no reason. There is no statement. It just is. That’s all we know. The artist could’ve had some meaning behind his creation, but he never blessed us with the answers. It’s the same with life: God never gave anyone a manual. Our understanding comes to nothing.

I’ve come to the conclusion that art doesn’t belong in any gallery. It doesn’t belong in the Louvre or the Met. It belongs in the streets and, of course… in the public restrooms. You can’t confine it. Art isn’t about restrictions. Art is happening everywhere and at every moment… even when you’re dropping a deuce! Now, I know what you’re thinking. Yes, there is always the imminent threat of marauders overthrowing everything we’ve worked

to create and burning all that we deem beautiful. It’s happened before, like with the Image result for bathroom graffiti artburning of the great library in Alexandria. The works that weren’t destroyed were stolen, priceless artifacts lost to time all because someone really enjoyed Homer’s Lost Tales. It’s our natural impulse to steal what is beautiful; to want it for ourselves, but we have to learn to ignore this vulgar ideology. We have to appreciate art for what it is; an everyday struggle to see what is inherently beautiful in the mundane.

In such a world, art seems almost defenseless. It’s a matter of perception. How many textbooks have you opened to a girl with her mouth opened wide… and a dick just waiting by her ears? And did you know there’s graffiti on the pyramids? We haven’t been able to get through any ‘Age of Man’ without leaving our stamp, our pollution, leaving just a hint that we were here. Hagia Sophia, one of the greatest achievements of the Byzantine Empire was ‘tagged’ by some marauder whose name is still there… TO THIS DAY! Good for him… I mean… his artwork lasted longer than the empire!

Shopping for art is another big waste of time. Art is everywhere and you’ve wasted your money. You can be walking along and just out of some divine miracle be struck by creativity. You just find the nearest bathroom stall and ‘POOF’ there it is, nestled safely within the secure confines of a bathroom stall at my local library. I found something not quite as profound as the drawing at the top-left, but it still made me question the laws that regulate reality. What is sacred, when anyone in the world can draw… whatever this is (I think it’s a masterpiece) and leave it to rot on the walls of a room that people hope to flee from in a matter of minutes.

How could the Vincent Van Gogh of our time leave this masterpiece? Doesn’t he feel anything for his creation, or is it more sacred to leave your work for the world to enjoy. Is the artist forever doomed to let his creation go, as the bird with his broken wing is meant to fly away, even if you nurture it, this bird is born free and owes you nothing. Makin’ me think… Well, played… shithouse Vincent Van Gogh… well played.

My belief, this one took either many different trips to the shitter by the same artist, or a concession of many artists working in tandem. Shit after shit, hour by hour… they came to a masterpiece that they could forever be proud of, and God bless them for their sacrifice. Usually when I have a large enough poop that I have the time to draw such an intricate painting I have not the patience, but such is what separates the artist from the peasant. The drawing that has brought this masterpiece to my attention, was not in the same vein, but it was special nevertheless. It was a drawing in pen of the female body, but drawn with the clumsiness of a child who had yet to see one. He had a crude interpretation of what it was, this elusive female figure, making the breasts ‘ginormous’ and the rest of her thin enough that the girl would topple over if she was real. She had no feet, which made me feel bad, since she could never run away from this hell, but she had clown hands, which are hands that are much too massive for any decent human being. They seemed to be inflating by the minute, and I had a brief hope that the poor girl would explode. Luckily, when I came back to take a picture some horrible barbarian had painted over it.

The proof is within my warped mind… anyway, there was a deep incision where her legs joined together; it wasn’t where the vagina should be, but further up, perhaps around the section that should have been her belly button. It was the mighty eye of Ra, like the eye of an octopus… the vagina is a terrifying creature, as elusive as the mighty Kutulu beast. What was worse, the poor girl was made to smile through this entire endeavor, forever forced to watch adolescents poop and mock her deformities.

Construction deadlines are unreliable… I’ll need to speak to the foreman.

The restroom is the nexus where all art is made. The real geniuses are hiding out, pooping in dark alleys… they are the dark knights! Imagine a man who was forced to hold on to such negativity. Holding onto such a painful story, such powerful art could tear a man to pieces… even though it would depend on what he ate, or how much time he might have. His art might kill him in the end… better to have a place like the shitter to let it go. People need a place to just let things go; some people find an outlet in sex, or drugs, or respectable creativity, but who’s to say which is right? If a man can hold something sacred, something that keeps him from creating a terrible Kutulu monster and destroying the world, then that is the greatest gift to the world. He has found an outlet, his gift to the world is finding his niche, of making his way through life without being driven insane.

Relay for Life

Image result for relay for lifeRelay For Life is a community based fundraising event of the American Cancer Society. Events are held in local communities, including an event in Renssealer County! As the American Cancer Society’s most successful fundraiser and the organization’s signature event, the mission of Relay For Life is to raise funds to improve cancer survival, decrease the incidence of cancer, and improve the quality of life for cancer patients and their caretakers. The 12 hour event Celebrates cancer survivors, Remembers loved ones lost to cancer, and encourages everyone to Fight Back against the disease.

A Relay For Life event is organized under a volunteer Relay Committee, and implemented by volunteers. It is often organized as a multi-day public gathering, spanning all day and night in a large outdoor space, and many people bring tents and camp out around the walking tracks. Currently, almost 4 million people take part in Relay events in over 5,000 communities in the United States.

This year’s Rensselaer County event is September 24th from 12PM to 12AM at the Joe Bruno Stadium in Troy. Registration is free so we encourage everyone to come and experience the power of Relay and see the impact it has on so many lives. This year’s event is Football themed and we will be hosting a Chili cook-off featuring local restaurants!

If you are unable to attend the event, there are many ways to get involved – from volunteering for a few hours, to buying a track sign or luminaria bag. Our event brings in 200+ people from the Rensselaer Community for a 12 hour event – that’s a lot of impressions for businesses interested in advertising to the Rensselaer community!

I hope you and your team will join us at Relay For Life of Rensselaer. If you have any questions please email chelseyhochmuth@gmail.com or call 518-466-8820. More information can be found on our website. www.relayforlife.org/rensselaerny

Self-Fulfilling Scripture

Rensselaer is the City of Lost Souls, which is not a wistful turn of phrase, but the truth that no one tells. You only have to walk down any street and listen to the desperate howl of this city. Their meager whimpering creates the Howl. It’s a right of passage that within this city, your heart makes a noise that is so desperate and deafening that it has gone silent. It’s hardly recognizable over the sounds of the train.

Their cries are silent. Between the train tracks and the river it’s the clutter of noise that keeps us from calling out to anyone that can help. The sound remains silent, although it’s there, trapped between the deafening cries of the train and the delicate flow of the river. For that, who would rather listen to the cries of thousands of disenfranchised souls. Albany is Tartarus of Greek Lore. It’s a city of grey, where lost souls wander without a purpose. We wander aimlessly along these streets, going in circles.  Every day is the same, bringing no challenge to our spiritual evolution. The day remains the same and so do we, without growth, we rot and disappear.

Lost souls are the only ones worth fighting for, just like lost causes. We see no end in sight. We must be shown. Even still, the souls will refuse, for they’ve grown stubborn and afraid of change. If we’re shown heaven, we’ll convince ourselves that it’s really hell. It’s a matter of some form of ‘mental gymnastics’ that we convince ourselves that nothing can get better. It’s this more than anything that makes us lost souls. It’s this philosophy more than death that makes us lost. We refuse entry into the gilded gates of heaven and we refuse sleep.

There is no center, yet we revolve around something. If you can pinpoint the source, perhaps you can find something to separate us and send us flying free off into space. The souls are caught between the two beams, one being the train and the other being the river. The souls cling to the river in hopes that the ferryman, Ishinigal, will grant them free passage to the underworld. Ishinigal doesn’t stop, unless they have the glorious ‘Coin of All-Father’, which is granted to one who truly deserves to see the wonders that wait beyond this eternity. No, their fate is to return. Eternal Return.They get frustrated and wave their fists at the ferryman, wondering why there seems to be no other alternative for them besides this suffering. They turn on each other, tossing their coins at the river, throwing fists, fighting, clawing, drowning. An unprecedented atavism prevails in a city with an overabundance of souls with life as a lost cause.

The river by our side seems to call to them, yet when they come it speaks not a word. This makes them bitter. They turn on the living, as well as themselves. Angered souls are known to chew on the living. It amplifies our frustration with life. Frustrated spirits do this because they want to bring you down with them; they want others to feel just like them. You try to rise above it, but when you look in one direction you hear the train and in the other you hear the river. In between, you hear the cries. Their amplified by the reverberations on either side. You’re trapped and forced to listen to their bitching. After a decade or so, you start to complain. After a little longer, you understand. It’s in this way that the cycle is secured and propagates its rotten philosophy into the future, thus the self-fulfilling prophecy is protected.