The past is a cacophonous tumulta maelstrom of melodiessome singingsome wailingsome marching defiantly.
A railroad coach abandoned half way up the Naugatuck Valleyit's ruined upholstery, a nesting place for rodents and small birdsthe meaning of the trainthe trackthe valleywhiplash through timefactory gears flashamassing brassy fortunessparking dreamswinning warsgrinding lives to ashpopulating suburbs with 2-car families.If not quite music, may it be chaos akin to the orchestra tuning up!The black track along the river, where does it come from, where does it lead?
Who put it there and when? How does it reverberate out of the valley's past? How does it partake of the Valley's bigotries and rivalries, its compromises and its compassion? Or is it the scornful howl of those who have come unhinged from history, beside the walls of Bedlam while the rest of us try to remember the past.On the side of the coach a swastika has been spray-painted, an ancient tune.