Things you learn from being a ghoul
St. Michael’s Cemetery- photo by Mitch Waxman
As has been mentioned in the past, your humble narrator suffers from a serious health condition, which necessitates regular physical exercise be performed as a curative. These long walks around the Newtown Pentacle, prescriptive in their origins, have made me curious about the things I encounter. Notwithstanding the industrial wonders of Newtown Creek or that clockwork malevolence of marching progress evidenced in Long Island City, desire arises in my heart for quiet… peace… and the company of some semblance of nature.
Here in northwestern Queens, the closest thing to a sylvan glade available to the public for peaceful perambulation are graveyards.
St. Michael’s Cemetery- photo by Mitch Waxman
Despite my great affection for the viridian devastation of Calvary Cemetery, it is quite a long walk from ruby lipped Astoria to the blighted hillocks of Blissville, and in these days of approaching winter- the sun’s journey ends in late afternoon. Calvary will consume you, if you stray too far from the light, and the wise visit it early in the day.
A mere half mile from Newtown Pentacle HQ, however, can be found St. Michael’s. 88 acres of manicured grounds, St. Michael’s is an island of calm in the middle of Astoria. Unlike Calvary, St. Michael’s is a nonsectarian burial ground, and exhibits the legendary diversity of populations for which Queens is renowned worldwide within its loamy depths.
(we’ll be exploring St. Michael’s more thoroughly in future posts, but for now…)
Recently, on one of my ghoulish walks around the place, I encountered strange fruit.
from St. Michael’s
St. Michael’s Cemetery is situated in the borough of Queens in New York City. Established in 1852, St. Michael’s is one of the oldest religious, nonprofit cemeteries in the New York City metropolitan area which is open to people of all faiths. It is owned and operated by St. Michael’s Church, an Episcopal congregation located on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
The original property for St. Michael’s Cemetery was purchased in 1852 by the Rev. Thomas McClure Peters and occupied seven acres. Over the years St. Michael’s gradually acquired additional land to its present size of approximately eighty-eight acres. Because it was Dr. Peters intention to provide a final dignified resting place for the poor who could not otherwise afford it, areas within the cemetery were assigned to other free churches and institutions of New York City. These areas are still held for the institutions they were assigned. As a service to its diverse constituency, St. Michael’s continues to this day provide burial space for individuals and families from all classes, religions and ethnicities. St. Michael’s reflects the demographic and historical trends of New York City. Walking through the older sections of the cemetery, you will find burials representing the 19th and early 20th century immigrants.
In the late 1980’s St. Michael’s began building community mausoleums in order to more efficiently utilize the remaining unoccupied space and offer attractive, affordable final resting places. Currently, we are planning a new mausoleum complex at 49th Street and Grand Central Parkway Service Road.
St. Michael’s Cemetery- photo by Mitch Waxman
About the size of an orange, or large apple, the ruggose skin of the fruit had a sickly yellow-green coloration. Abundant, the fallen spores were obviously in season. Ignorant of the specificities of arborial lore, nocturnal researches of North American cultivars suggested that this sort of ovum was typical of an Osage Orange- Maclura pomifera to those in the know.
from wikipedia
Osage-orange, Horse-apple, Bois D’Arc, or Bodark (Maclura pomifera) is a small deciduous tree or large shrub, typically growing to 8–15 metres (26–49 ft) tall. It is dioeceous, with male and female flowers on different plants. The fruit, a multiple fruit, is roughly spherical, but bumpy, and 7–15 cm in diameter, and it is filled with a sticky white latex sap. In fall, its color turns a bright yellow-green and it has a faint odor similar to that of oranges.
Maclura is closely related to the genus Cudrania, and hybrids between the two genera have been produced. In fact, some botanists recognize a more broadly defined Maclura that includes species previously included in Cudrania and other genera of Moraceae.
Osajin and Pomiferin are flavonoid pigments present in the wood and fruit, comprising about 10% of the fruit’s dry weight. The plant also contains the flavonol morin.
Recent research suggests that elemol, another component extractable from the fruit, shows promise as a mosquito repellent with similar activity to DEET in contact and residual repellency.
St. Michael’s Cemetery, Maclura pomifera, or Osage Orange fruit - photo by Mitch Waxman
An important plant to the native american cultures, the Osage Orange tree produces wood which is dense and fibrous, ideal for the body of a Bow and it is one of the highest rated “fuel woods“. Resistant to insect and fungus, Osage wood is also prized for use in fenceposts. It grows in the form of a dense thorned thicket surrounding the central trunk, and produces the “orange” which is largely passed over by mammalian scavengers like Squirrels and Raccoons. Prized by Horses and Mules (horse apples), the original range of the tree was confined to the southwest, but its value as a hedge plant and naturally replenishing cattle fence was instrumental in it being planted all over North America.
from horticulture and home pest news
The Osage-orange is native to a small area in eastern Texas, southeastern Oklahoma, and southwestern Arkansas. This region was also the home of the Osage Indians, hence the common name of Osage-orange. White settlers moving into the region found that the Osage-orange possessed several admirable qualities. It is a tough and durable tree, transplants easily, and tolerates poor soils, extreme heat, and strong winds. It also has no serious insect or disease problems. During the mid-nineteenth century, it was widely planted by midwest farmers, including those in southern Iowa, as a living fence. When pruned into a hedge, it provided an impenetrable barrier to livestock. The widespread planting of Osage-orange stopped with the introduction of barbed wire. Many of the original hedges have since been destroyed or died. However, some of the original trees can still be found in fence rows in southern Iowa. Trees have also become naturalized in pastures and ravines in southern areas of the state.
St. Michael’s Cemetery, Maclura pomifera, or Osage Orange fruit - photo by Mitch Waxman
Like all fruiting plants, an animal conspirator is required to complete the life cycle of the Osage Orange, expanding its range via the digestive processes of a ranging forager. Ever efficient, nature would not waste its time producing an energy rich fruit that attracts no living animal to it. Theories abound as to the identity of this partner organism, and an extinct equine is one of the evolutionary vectors theorized to have played this role for the Osage (thought likely due to the browsing preferences of modern Horse and Mule), but an intriguing notion is put forth by Connie Barlow of Harvard’s Arnold Arboretum who offers the theory that the anachronistic fruit of the Osage Orange’s partner animal was in fact a long extinct North American Elephant- the Mammoth.
Practicers of the left handed path of forbidden knowledge prize Osage wood for usage in wands, believing it to be useful when invoking mysterious spirits emanating from the bowels of the earth- those never human elemental intelligences, and the spirit animal guides associated with Native American Shamanic beliefs.
Osage-Orange is a native tree coming from a relatively small area in eastern Oklahoma, portions of Missouri, Texas and Arkansas. While used for centuries by native Americans in its original area for war clubs and bows, it was the first tree Lewis and Clark sent back east from St. Louis in 1804. Yet, with that modest beginning, the Osage-Orange probably has been planted in greater numbers throughout the United States in the 19th and early 20th century than almost any other tree species in North America. Because of its value as a natural hedgerow fence, it made agricultural settlement of the prairies possible, it then led directly to the invention of barbed wire in 1874, and then provided most of the posts for the wire that fenced the West. It is still considered the best wood for making archer’s bows. The Osage-Orange is one of America’s more interesting natives. It has at least two Internet web sites dedicated to keeping Osage-Orange enthusiasts informed (see www.osageorange.com and www.hedgeapple.com).
Happy Thanksgiving.
Working Harbor September Sunset tour 3
Today’s fun is a chunk of H.P. Lovecraft’s The Call of Cthulhu, with photos I shot at the Working Harbor Committee September 15th Sunset tour. For the whole story, at wikisource.org- click here.
All text, of course, is by Lovecraft-
- photo by Mitch Waxman
…I suppose that only a single mountain-top, the hideous monolith-crowned citadel whereon great Cthulhu was buried, actually emerged from the waters. When I think of the extent of all that may be brooding down there I almost wish to kill myself forthwith. Johansen and his men were awed by the cosmic majesty of this dripping Babylon of elder daemons, and must have guessed without guidance that it was nothing of this or of any sane planet. Awe at the unbelievable size of the greenish stone blocks, at the dizzying height of the great carven monolith, and at the stupefying identity of the colossal statues and bas-reliefs with the queer image found in the shrine on the Alert, is poignantly visible in every line of the mate’s frightened description.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Without knowing what futurism is like, Johansen achieved something very close to it when he spoke of the city; for instead of describing any definite structure or building, he dwells only on broad impressions of vast angles and stone surfaces—surfaces too great to belong to anything right or proper for this earth, and impious with horrible images and hieroglyphs. I mention his talk about angles because it suggests something Wilcox had told me of his awful dreams. He said that the geometry of the dream-place he saw was abnormal, non-Euclidean, and loathsomely redolent of spheres and dimensions apart from ours. Now an unlettered seaman felt the same thing whilst gazing at the terrible reality.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Johansen and his men landed at a sloping mud-bank on this monstrous Acropolis, and clambered slipperily up over titan oozy blocks which could have been no mortal staircase. The very sun of heaven seemed distorted when viewed through the polarising miasma welling out from this sea-soaked perversion, and twisted menace and suspense lurked leeringly in those crazily elusive angles of carven rock where a second glance showed concavity after the first showed convexity.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Something very like fright had come over all the explorers before anything more definite than rock and ooze and weed was seen. Each would have fled had he not feared the scorn of the others, and it was only half-heartedly that they searched—vainly, as it proved—for some portable souvenir to bear away.
It was Rodriguez the Portuguese who climbed up the foot of the monolith and shouted of what he had found. The rest followed him, and looked curiously at the immense carved door with the now familiar squid-dragon bas-relief. It was, Johansen said, like a great barn-door; and they all felt that it was a door because of the ornate lintel, threshold, and jambs around it, though they could not decide whether it lay flat like a trap-door or slantwise like an outside cellar-door. As Wilcox would have said, the geometry of the place was all wrong. One could not be sure that the sea and the ground were horizontal, hence the relative position of everything else seemed phantasmally variable.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Briden pushed at the stone in several places without result. Then Donovan felt over it delicately around the edge, pressing each point separately as he went. He climbed interminably along the grotesque stone moulding—that is, one would call it climbing if the thing was not after all horizontal—and the men wondered how any door in the universe could be so vast. Then, very softly and slowly, the acre-great lintel began to give inward at the top; and they saw that it was balanced.
Donovan slid or somehow propelled himself down or along the jamb and rejoined his fellows, and everyone watched the queer recession of the monstrously carven portal. In this phantasy of prismatic distortion it moved anomalously in a diagonal way, so that all the rules of matter and perspective seemed upset.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
The aperture was black with a darkness almost material. That tenebrousness was indeed a positive quality; for it obscured such parts of the inner walls as ought to have been revealed, and actually burst forth like smoke from its aeon-long imprisonment, visibly darkening the sun as it slunk away into the shrunken and gibbous sky on flapping membraneous wings. The odour rising from the newly opened depths was intolerable, and at length the quick-eared Hawkins thought he heard a nasty, slopping sound down there. Everyone listened, and everyone was listening still when It lumbered slobberingly into sight and gropingly squeezed Its gelatinous green immensity through the black doorway into the tainted outside air of that poison city of madness.
Poor Johansen’s handwriting almost gave out when he wrote of this. Of the six men who never reached the ship, he thinks two perished of pure fright in that accursed instant. The Thing cannot be described—there is no language for such abysms of shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled. God! What wonder that across the earth a great architect went mad, and poor Wilcox raved with fever in that telepathic instant? The Thing of the idols, the green, sticky spawn of the stars, had awaked to claim his own. The stars were right again, and what an age-old cult had failed to do by design, a band of innocent sailors had done by accident. After vigintillions of years great Cthulhu was loose again, and ravening for delight.
Tales of Calvary 5- Shade and Stillness
- photo by Mitch Waxman
In the past, the desolating loneliness and isolation which define my internal dialogue have been described to you simply – I’m all ‘effed up.
Shunned by those considered normal, my human- all too human- nature forces visceral desires for companionship. Lacking fellowship amongst the the living, one instinctively reaches out for those things which are no longer- or have never been- alive. That odd man in the filthy black raincoat that you might glimpse as you drive past the graveyard, scuttling along taking pictures of sewers and odd boxes in the Cemetery Belt- might very well be your humble narrator.
I was at Calvary Cemetery, intent on investigating the puzzling knots I had observed, beneath a hilltop tree- fed by some morbid nutrition, when I came across the Sweeney monument.
The Association for Gravestone Studies makes available this pdf file of a 19th century monumental bronze catalog, incidentally, as well as this discussion of “White Bronze“.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Unlike the celebrated O’Brien clan, whose final destination is found closer to the apex of Calvary’s hills, the Sweeneys are shadowed by time. Social standing and class status drove the generations buried up here to seek a favorable and expensive bit of real estate, away from the common rabble and poor being laid into marshy trenches at the shallow of the hill in their thousands, and to lie for eternity with “their own kind”.
The princes of the City, and their courts, lie in Calvary Cemetery- not far from worm scarred timbers whose titan bulk restricts an elixir of extinction known as the fabled Newtown Creek from mingling with the blessed soils of Calvary. Unguessable springs of subterrene putrefaction percolating with horrors beyond the grave’s holding flow still beneath the streets of Newtown- vestigial streams and waterways that are imprisoned in masonry and brick tunnels. Directly mixing, in hideous congress, the liquefied effluvia of the long dead found in the hydrologic column of Calvary with the exotic chemistries of Newtown Creek? Who can guess would result?
Whoever the Sweeneys were, their family plot is located in a fairly exclusive area of the 19th century’s ex-population, and pretty close to the top of a hill. What’s odd here, and remarkable, is the enigmatic knots of this token affixed to the Sweeney monument- a trinket which had obviously weathered more than one change of season.
Unknowable implications are suggested by the urgency of this arcane reference found in the New York State Cemetery Law.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Symbolic gifts to the dead and the placement of totemic representations at graves are expected behaviors, when confronted with the brutal truth of mortality, from individuals who experience the death of a family or peer group member. Every cemetery in the area, the sheer acreage of which -in this case- can be observed from space, has posted regulations on appropriate and allowed markers and monuments. Certain obtuse expressions of grief are disallowed due to the necessary maintenance and landscaping of the grounds, and good taste is enforced.
Another odd set of provisions is found in the Penal Law section of the aforementioned codification of New York’s cemeteries.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Noticing that that the oddly complex knotting of the cord implied commonality with the nearby red and blue knotted cords, I decided to have a closer look. There was a second color of cordage in the knots, a dirty and weathered yellow which was only present in one spot. The pendulum which the arrangement supported was either cheap electroplated metal or some sort of ruggose plastic. It was a sort of cartouche, an amulet shaped in a manner commonly recognized as a heart, suspended by a twisted tendon of oddly knotted string.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Suspicious that this might be something other than innocent, and knowing the predilection of certain groups for the usage of bodily liquids in their rites, your humble narrator used a trusty all in one Leatherman brand tool to examine it further. It is important, when walking in the hallowed grounds of Calvary, to try not to touch anything lest something touch you back. Things found there, if they can catch the smell of you, might follow you home and demand to be fed.
Of course, I mean the hundreds of feral cats which stalk Calvary’s hills, and it is best that they stay here where it is always safe for them. Neighborhood gossips- their odd comment phrased with a raised eyebrow and knowing squint- hoarsely whisper the opine: In Calvary Cemetery, no man may kill a cat…
Also from New York State, a manual for the new treasurer, a business plan and model to follow for the mortuary industry’s promise of “Perpetual Care”.
misty water colored memories… but with blood
Long Island City, mouth of Newtown Creek, Greenpoint stitched panorama – photo by Mitch Waxman
Note- I’ve got a turmoil in me right now.
Your humble narrator is pissed off, and this ape is standing at the edge of his personal forest, hurling invective at an unfamiliar thing hanging in the sky called Moon. Rambling ahead, with a few reminisces of New York in “the good old days”.
The disturbing incongruity of modern skyscrapers in the Newtown Pentacle’s panoramic skies, whether commercial spire or residential tower, is horrifying to the residents of victorian relicts such as Long Island City and Greenpoint. All along the rotting infrastructure of the malodorous Newtown Creek, nearly the geographic center of the City of Greater New York, the arrival of a pregnant moment is apparent.
“A river of federal money will wash out the Newtown Creek, and all the poisons in the mud will be hatched out, or so say the G-Men” is my take on the EPA superfund listing of the Creek for now.
I still haven’t parsed everything, that was said in the November 5, 2009 Newtown Creek Alliance meeting at St. Cecilia’s. I made an audio recording of the presentation, and will be listening to it again. Its just that the EPA… the feds… gaining absolute control over a 4 long by half mile wide chunk of New York City for as long as 50 years… that’s 12.5 presidential administrations. 12.5 administrations ago was FDR’s first term.
Speaking of FDR, did you know that his second term Vice President- Henry A. Wallace (responsible for the very successful transformation of dustbowl era agri-businesses from rural homestead into their somewhat modern form) was a well known and public occultist?
Looking east from Newtown Creek Wastewater Treatment Plant catwalk stitched panorama – photo by Mitch Waxman
The New York that my father knew, the one built up in the late 30’s, 40’s, and 50’s, is the one that began crumbling in the 70’s and came crashing down during the 1980’s. Contrary to what you may have read, the Reagan years were not a very nice time, and a soggy malaise hung over both the great city and the nation that exists because of it. Disillusioned by the failures of utopian city planners and those shambolic ideologies which were popularized by academic and journalist alike, the population of New York turned on each other in those days.
Here’s a few of my “new york stories”- I was there, I saw them.
Looking southwest from Queensboro Bridge stitched panorama - photo by Mitch Waxman
A tragedy of Russian scale and tone, “good old days” New York saw violent encounters between strangers became commonplace in a city always on the edge. Back then (late 80’s, early 90’s)- Williamsburg was a blasted out brick lot, blighted, and an island of extreme poverty.
West from Pulaski Bridge facing Manhattan, stitched panorama - photo by Mitch Waxman
Naked hookers plied their trade in Williamsburg on Bedford and Grand, while just beyond- a Motorcycle Club’s shanty was lit by oil drums filled with castaway lumber and litter. The Lower East Side (then known as Alphabet city) was where you spent your time, then, or way uptown above 96th street on the west side- and both neighborhoods had borderlines and “DMZ” areas.
The City belonged to the rats, and you either fought them or ran away. Cowardice was considered an intelligent option back then, just run away- don’t try to fight “them”.
East on Newtown Creek, Kosciuszko Bridge stitched panorama – photo by Mitch Waxman
Once, I saw a businessman 2 blocks north of Grand Central Station on Park Avenue, wearing an expensive vested suit which was the fashion at the time. He walked between two cars, dropped his suit pants, and defecated in the street. You used to pee wherever you wanted to, as well, “back in the day”.
You could smoke tobacco, in designated areas, within New York City hospital wards. There was a magical danish called the Bearclaw, which has since gone extinct in New York City, best quaffed with bitter black coffee. The last Bearclaw I had was in the “New York New York” casino in Las Vegas.
Skillman Avenue, Sunnyside Railyard fence line – photo by Mitch Waxman
Once, I saw a homeless guy junkie- during the early AIDS years- get hit by a cab. His head shot forward toward the asphalt in a parabolic arc with his knees acting as a fulcrum, shattering his face and killing him. This happened on 21st street and 3rd, down the block from the Police Academy. They left him there for 2-3 hours waiting for the morgue to show up because nobody wanted to get AIDS blood on themselves. The bulls set up traffic cones around him.
Sunnyside, Barnett Avenue looking west stitched panorama - photo by Mitch Waxman
That New York City- the one that was a national disaster long before it became the scene of a national disaster, a lamentable metropolis of blood, hate, and too much damn noise- is being built over and carted away. But this is the way of things, here.
Those farms and mills obliterated by rapacious rail barons and their quest to build Sunnyside Yards, do you know who the Payntars were, or their story?
Queensbridge Park, looking west toward Manhattan stitched panorama - photo by Mitch Waxman
The mansions of Ravenswood, gothic palaces built for the ultra rich who made their fortunes on Newtown Creek and in Long Island City, were casually eradicated to make way for mill and dock, and later bridge and housing project. Do you know the story of the Terracotta House?
From George Washington Bridge looking south on upper Manhattan and New Jersey stitched panorama - photo by Mitch Waxman
Once, back in ‘93, on 99th and Broadway- some guy was talking on a pay phone in the middle of the night, during an ice storm. You know the kind- the sort of weather that coats every surface in a half inch of clear, slick ice. Urban misery, but quite beautiful.
Astoria 31st Avenue stormy sky stitched panorama- photo by Mitch Waxman
Unfortunately for this fellow on the phone, someone shot him a few times and he must have slumped forward with the phone in his hand. I walked by on my way to the 2 train the next morning and the wind had pushed him backwards, his frozen hand around the receiver and his corpse was swaying stiffly in the february wind. There were bloodcicles.
Long Island City, Hunters Point, mouth of Newtown Creek, Greenpoint stitched panorama - photo by Mitch Waxman
For more on this lost and forgotten civilization, buy an early Ramones album and play it very loud.
Why I love NYC Marathon day
- photo by Mitch Waxman
I make it a point of walking the borderlines between contestant and spectator when the NYC Marathon comes hurtling through Long Island City. The big show always delivers easy photos of runners and acolyte crowd, but for me, the NYC Marathon offers something else. An untrammeled and traffic free opportunity to explore Queens Plaza without the suspicious attentions of the NYPD focusing upon me as a potential anarchist or possible adherent to some fifth columnist group’s philosophies.
for 2008 marathon coverage- and discussion of the physical culture movement, click here.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Normally impossible angles and vantage points- forbidden by either those security regulations so rigorously enforced by the NYPD or that unyielding flow of traffic entering Queens from Manhattan via the Queensboro Bridge- are available during the Marathon due to the wholesale diversion of traffic away from the event.
for 2009 ING NYC marathon coverage, click here. If you’re looking for photos of the runners as they hurtled through LIC, click here for the entire set of photos at flickr.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Incongruously empty of their reason for existence, the utilitarian patience of Queens Plaza’s cement clad steel roadways is tried only by the sound of thousands of runners, a cheering crowd, and a complex of actively running elevated subway tracks. The comparative silence offered to your harried narrator during such moments is nepenthe.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
I’ve been lucky in the last few months. The occasion of the Queensboro Bridge Centennial, with its associated parade and historical community events, allowed unprecedented access to the structure- associated onramps- and approaches, and the rich historical vistas normally rendered unreachable by the dangers of oncoming and uncountable waves of vehicular traffic.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Work has already begun on the renovation of Queens Plaza into a form more to the liking of the oligarch masters of New York, hidden in their Manhattan towers, but what fate will befall the past?
Look to ancient Millstones for prognostications about the future, and commentary on the regard shown the past by those self same urban masters. Forgotten-NY’s Kevin Walsh, in the syndication feed of his Huffington Post column, has written a great history of the Queens Plaza Millstones- click here.
Queenscrap has been all over the controversy. So has the NY Daily News. Your humble narrator was allowed to video a community meeting on the subject, and it can be viewed here.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Accompanying the municipal re-rendering of the Plaza will be the construction of multiple tower buildings- condominium apartments and hotel complexes, as well as the opening of a Long Island Railroad and MTA Subway crossover station at Skillman Avenue. Progress has been girdled by the recent financial crisis, but this is hardly the first cycle of boom and hopeless bust that Queens Plaza has weathered.
- photo by Mitch Waxman
Wonder what it might look like in another 100 years, when the archaic elevated subway tracks are rusted away and replaced, in a time when vehicular traffic as we know it will be considered quaint. Wonder if you’ll still be able to see the sky in Long Island City in just 10 years, and whether or not America’s great cities will be anything other than amusement parks and tourist attractions in 50.
