Archive for 2012
something damnable
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Your humble narrator came to fruition in the hinterlands of Brooklyn along the vast Jamaica Bay, in the flat lands. A once thriving salt meadow, hewn roughly into dry land by fill, this flat land (nearby an area known for its flat bush) was covered by slabs of cement which carried two story structures and served as “a neighborhood”. In this “neighborhood”, one learned to appreciate the unique cultural milieu of the outer boroughs. Manhattan Special was drunk, stick ball was played, old athletic shoes adorned overhanging wires, and people sat outside their homes at night and interacted with each other. When I arrived in western Queens several years ago, I was happy to find that my new home adhered to similar custom.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
It wasn’t long before one realized that malign forces are at work, all along the East River in fact, which seek to blindly wipe aside that which allows these neighborhood cultures to exist- which is the human scale of the place. What I have taken the liberty of describing as the “Real Estate Industrial Complex” seems hell bent on eradicating the actuality of these neighborhoods, in the name of an ever expanding and unsustainable balloon of profit and short term construction jobs. Such matters are “above my pay grade” of course, represent vast sociological and economic forces beyond understanding, as well as the sophistry and euphoria of an irresponsible generation given the proverbial “green light” to rethink the skyline and shape of a New York City which they loathe. It is best to retreat from such weighty matters, and attempt to lose ones self in quaint historical matters and obscure details about the past. Blissville Banshee, anyone?
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Yesterday, whilst scanning the vast interwebs for just this sort of Queens related minutia, one came across this noisome link over at queenscrap. It’s a real estate industrial complex oriented piece, of course, wherein a pack of jackal realtors describe their displeasure at the real estate scene here in Astoria.
The problem they describe, of course, is that they are not eking as much blood out of the ancient village as they might, should the current building stock be razed and replaced with shining towers remarkable for a vertical density reminiscent of the sort of city blocks one encounters in Judge Dredd comic books. Complaints are made of low turn over in housing stock, as people who move to Astoria like it so much that they want to stay. These profiteers and vampires say nothing of hospital beds, overcrowded schools, lessened and erratic transit capacity, or an already overburdened infrastructure of sewer and power systems. Naught is mentioned about the hordes of low life criminals who drunkenly wander the place at night, the crowds who surround noisy bars, or the insane truck traffic which makes a joke of the notion of “DOT approved truck routes” as they lumber down residential blocks. Let’s give the already overburdened 114th precinct commanders around twice their current number of cops, and then let’s have a talk about adding thousands of condo units on the East River.
As a resident of the area, I believe that the shot above represents the role played by these usurious middlemen in our culture, and describes my opinion of how they view my neighborhood. Pass the swatter, please.
frequent references
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Maritime Sunday rolls around once more at this, your Newtown Pentacle, and a humble narrator will remain uncharacteristically terse for a change. All week have I tormented you, lords and ladies, with electioneering and political intrigues and I do believe that we’ve arrived at a juncture where a few simple photographs should be called upon to do the talking. A few tugboats should do the trick.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
It has been a busy week- meetings at and about sewer plants, conversations and presentations about titanic bridges being deconstructed and the community amenities which will accompany their replacements, just yesterday I found myself at no less than three distinct events at and upon the Newtown Creek itself, and on top of all this a social event in Manhattan which I was called on to photograph. I actually cannot remember all which was witnessed, said, and done at this moment- and will have to rely upon the hundreds of photos recently deposited on my hard drive to reconstruct my activities.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
As you read this, I’m likely on my way to a certain destination, well outside of my normal “beat”. An attempt to have a little fun on one of the few weekend days not occupied with the tours and other obligations which have otherwise consumed much of my attention over the last few months. Exploring the unknown, or at least the barely known, has not been a luxury enjoyed since the early spring. One desperately craves wholesome excitement and ribald adventure.
Project Firebox 52
– photo by Mitch Waxman
They don’t play the bagpipes for Fireboxes, nor do the fellows in the kilts and sporrans muster with flags and march. Gaze upon the ignominious end of a scarlet centurion, shattered by probable vehicular assault, its very innards picked at and eaten away by the scourge of those metal collecting “Crows of Queens”. Amazing Grace, indeed.
ghastly marble
– photo by Mitch Waxman
For so long, western Queens has been regarded as the vestibule of Long Island- a convenient place to stamp out boots caked with mud or to leave a wet umbrella. It has been a place one passes through, while on the way to somewhere else. The elites of a certain Shining City lying to the west have formulated a different role for the place in recent years, but there’s no denying that they still regard it as a corridor.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Those of us who live here see a different place, idiosyncratic and oddly charming, populated by aspirants, immigrants, and often- bad actors. We exist between the factories and rail yards, along the highways and elevated subways, in pretty as you please two and three story homes. “Mind your own business” is the motto, as is “trouble will come anyway, so why seek it out on purpose?”. Most just want to be left alone to BBQ or smoke black market cigarettes.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Municipal involvement, other than by a dedicated cadre of operatives and opportunists, is slim. Ask any resident of Astoria what reward there is in voting, and you’ll be told that it’s jury duty. All of the time I spend in Brooklyn on creek business strikes a stunning counterpoint to the scene in Queens. In Greenpoint, they may not vote at higher numbers than on the Queens side of the Newtown Creek, but they can summon up a torch bearing mob with stunning rapidity over there.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
For many years, I’ve wondered “what if election day was a national holiday?”. A national “get off of work day”, which would be vetted by a receipt handed out at the polling place and presented to your employer. It wouldn’t indicate who you cast a ballot for, instead merely stating that you voted. The biggest problem we have is low voter participation. It allows marginal groups who vote in blocs great power, sidelines the mainstream, and allows elites to develop amongst elected officials who cater to tiny slices of the population. Perhaps a tax credit instead, knock a hundred bucks off your federal taxes in return for participating in the American form of Government.
dismounted and descended
– photo by Mitch Waxman
As much joy as it is possible, for one such as myself, to realize is attained via the delusion of solitude. Condemned as children to existential servitude in the concretized valleys of the vast human hive, New Yorkers are never truly alone. We are witnessed, watched, stalked, constrained, and regulated every second of the day. Legislated rules govern volume, appearance, and moral propriety.
Even the air we breathe and the water we drink are overseen, inspectors and officials have the right to compel that the front door of our homes open for their inspection and oversight.
Often has a humble narrator been accused, however, of being a kook and conspiracist- or simply a paranoid.
from youtube
X
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Jello Biafra warned us, all those years ago, of what was coming. We all carry tracking devices, which also make phone calls, and hie to rules laid down by those who have long sought to keep a restive population entertained with games and circuses. Even the sacrosanct right to rule over ones own immediate vicinity is vulnerable to the desires of suspicious magistrates, who may demand any who catch their notice to passively allow temporary detainment and inspection- the so called “stop and frisk” procedure.
This is merely the most benign of invasive inspections, of course, which expose the farce and tissue of lies which underlie the social contract.
from youtube
X
– photo by Mitch Waxman
“Necessity has forced such programs” is the answer which would be offered by those who enforce them, followed by some catchy jingoism such as “Freedom isn’t Free” or “If you have nothing to hide, why would you care?” or something. The same entities and personages, of course, maintain armies of lawyers to ensure their own privacy. These creatures and organs, all granted existence under the ideations of “law”, never make an error – instead it’s “an unfortunate incident” or “an accident”.
Such paranoia and musing about the universe occupies a significant amount of my thought, as one scuttles about beneath the burning thermonuclear eye of god itself, and across the concrete devastations of the Newtown Pentacle. Perhaps, somewhere, exists solace?
from youtube
The Newtown Pentacle 