Archive for the ‘Pickman’ Category
shapeless nemesis
It’s all a plot, I tell you, nothing is accidental and the whole world is “on purpose.”
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Feeling particularly powerless, depressed, and isolated of late – the only solution for one such as myself is to kick his feet about and scuttle around. Persecution and possible prosecution of a humble narrator is always in the forefront of my mind, as it were, so it’s best to just keep moving. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to avoid the “tells” that my movements have been anticipated by some shadowy cabal of possible occultists, if you know how to read the streets. One also grows a bit dizzy when spinning around on his heels to check if any enemies might be coming up from behind.
It’s best to remain vigilant, always. Look at the signage on the food cart above… who ever heard of a halal chili dog? Gotcha, shadowy cabal, you’re not as smart as me – I can spot you people at fifty paces.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Here in Astoria, I noticed back in the first and second weeks of September that a bright beam of light was emanating into the sky from lower Manhattan. There’s a cover story for this propagated by the government, but I know what’s really going on and so will you when a race of extraterrestrial lizards arrives in flying saucers. Of more immediate concern to me is my so called neighbor, which presents itself as an elderly woman who hordes cats. I know what its really up to, and I’m betting those aren’t really cats either.
There’s always one of her so called cats in her window, pretending to be asleep.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Don’t ask me to tell you what’s really going on in Astoria’s St. Michael’s Cemetery. The answer, and its occult implications involving an extra dimensional race of non human intelligences who were the former and are the future wardens of the Earth, could spark off a new dark age and return mankind to the status of shivering cave dwellers and ape like savagery were their presence here known generally. It is best that in these places where they walk about in the dark of night, these elder things, that they do so alone and that the only evidence of their travels are piles of swept aside granite.
It is also best for the rest of you to argue about verbal manners and behavioral mores, and leave the occult reality of things to ones like myself who can actually handle the truth that lies beyond your gaze. There is no “safe space” when “they” are discussed, as our specie are as ants to them. On the earth, only that thing with the three lobed burning eye which dwells in in the cupola of LIC’s sapphire megalith can spy them, and even then only dimly.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
oddly sunburned
Lost in the bowels of the subterrene, in today’s post.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Innocently enough, while on my way to a photo industrial complex exposition at the Javits Center that I was lured to by the promise of a small payment for participating in a focus group, a major crisis suddenly came rushing up and seized a hold of a humble narrator. One was busy staring at his shoes and pondering how my life had brought me to this pass, when the realization that I was the only person on the 7 train crashed like an ocean wave across the fragile shoreline of the psyche. The sudden manifestation of a thousand nightmares was upon me.
An inflation of my self esteem began to roar like a cataract between the ears and behind the eyes, coupled with a sensation that was both spiritually distracting and which generated uncountable bad and unprofitable ideas – all at once in a rushing torrent of intent.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
My self importance was deflated by the solitude, as I had no one to impress – with a nervous rattling off of some historical minutiae about the Flushing line IRT’s history. What am I without my narcissism? My eyes were pinned wide open in a wild stare, and became uncomfortably dry, as I seemed to have stopped blinking. After a quick check of pulse rate and a crack of my knuckles against the plastic seat to confirm that I was in fact awake and not lying in bed – unconscious and hallucinating – it was decided that this was in fact the waking world. Knowing that nobody back home in Queens would believe me about being alone on the 7 line, my trusty camera was deployed and evidence collected of this momentous event – that I, I of all people, was utterly alone on the subway.
Surely, this would be the sort of thing that would draw the interest of all…
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Bouncing from side to side of the light rail car, which was positively hurtling through the stinking concrete bunkers beneath the megalopolis, suddenly paranoia blossomed in my mind when I realized that in the next carriage there was another singular occupant like myself. Perhaps the focus group at the photo expo was nonexistent? Was this some sort of exquisite trap laid out for an elite group? I sensed the presence of the hidden hand, the shadowed elite, the supranormal, at work. Nothing is random, everything has meaning – I read that on a greeting card for sale in a gas station convenience shop once…
My thoughts raced, and flights of ideation began to assail.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The train ground to a halt, with an electronic recording announcing that the delay in forward movement was because there was traffic in front of us. I wondered if my counterpart in the next car realized, as I did, that this was some sort of trick. Anything can happen when you’re alone and without witnesses. That’s why, like the band TLC advised back during the 1990’s – I don’t go chasing waterfalls and stick to the hills and valleys I’m used to.
It was my hope that when the skeletal remains of myself, and the other, were eventually found at either terminal stop – Flushing or Hudson Yards – that the images on my camera card would be recoverable and offer some sort of explanation to Our Lady of the Pentacle as to my fate.
Of course, then the train started moving again and I found my way to the Javits Center, but this was a close one.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Back at home, one found nothing but difficulty in attempting to sleep. There were machines moving around in the sky, some of them carrying Policemen. I set up the camera and watched…
Who can guess, all there is, buried down there – or moving around through the aether, up there?
As a note, the next morning, my facial skinvelope exhibited the dermatological effects characterized by exposure to the burning thermonuclear eye of God itself. I have no explanation to offer.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
evil expectancy
Manic paranoia, in today’s post.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The other day, whilst bringing a check to the bank for deposit, one overheard two gentlemen of the street comparing notes. The younger of the two informed his colleague that the Bush family were in fact reptiles, but he wasn’t sure if they descended from us or if we descended from them. His colleague asked if their reptilian heritage related back to their habit of drinking human blood. The former indicated he did not know.
You can’t make this stuff up, I tell you. What if they’re right? What if it’s all true?
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One of my Croatian neighbors told me that you can catch cancer in the manner of a cold. My own mother was convinced that electricity could arc out from the wall outlets, and required the usage of little plastic plugs for otherwise unused power orifices. The world is a scary place, presumably.
I’m scared, and of pretty much everything and everyone. There’s a threat rich environment to be had on every street corner, and the only thing missing from NYC are jets of flame erupting from random spots in the sidewalk. What if an air conditioner fell on you from some eighth floor window? What if it was pushed by some acolyte of those blood drinking reptilians? That little blur of movement in the corner of the room around the baseboards? That could be a mouse, but it could also be something far worse, although it’s likely a mouse – which is disturbing enough, actually.
What lives, or exists, between the walls of all the apartments is not something you want to think about.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The world is a scary place, full of existential horror and banal traps. The little plastic or metal tips on shoe laces are called aglets, and their purpose is sinister. Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton patrol the landscape at night seizing people’s precious guns. HAARP is listening, but who is listening to HAARP? FEMA is building vast concentration camps nearby the airports – prison camps for political dissidents.
Heh… why do you think the City wants to replace Riker’s Island, really? Humanitarian concerns? Heh, how naive are you anyway? Heh.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
extirpate everything
Death, annihilation, hatred… in today’s post.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
A few of you lords and ladies have commented on the dark mood which a humble narrator seems to be in, which is a correct assessment. Last weekend, I did my last “official” tours of 2016, and one does not allow himself the luxury of maudlin thoughts during tour season – as I have to remain upbeat while describing the sobering industrial history of Newtown Creek and its surrounding landmass, for fear of snapping the stoutest chord whilst describing the pneumonic cattle stables of LIC’s Blissville, or the Brooklyn side glue factory of Peter Cooper (where Jello brand gelatin was invented, as an aside).
Once the season is done, however, it’s as if some sort of great rubber band has snapped back into its primal shape and I can allow the black dog to roam and wallow in hopeless misery and spiritual darkness for a short interval. Home sweet home.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Now! Now is the time to unleash the very worm that gnaws! Now is the time to creep through the shadows of the megalopolis in a filthy black raincoat, scuttling from corner to corner, and skittering along the masonry walls of cylcopean factory buildings and across disease cursed bulkheads in the manner of some sort of wandering mendicant. Now is the time to shine a light into the sewers and other dark recesses while asking that age old question – “who can guess, all there is, that might be hidden down there?” Now!
For some reason, I think inserting a “bwah-hah-hah” into this post would be appropriate.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One has a long held belief that if you’re suffering from the flu, the appropriate thing to do is to stay in bed and let the illness run its course. It’s the same thing with “feeling bad” between the ears – indulge yourself for a few days, lay down in the muddy puddles of the psyche, and allow the psychic fever to rage. The trick is not allowing that to become your “thing” and spending months or years staring into the mirror at three in the morning wondering why your mommy didn’t love you enough, or getting lost in morbid self obsession.
I believe you should, at least, pretend to be like and enjoy the company of the humans. Otherwise a dark mood can lead to outré expressions of loneliness.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
tightly nailed
How do you not read something if you know how to read?
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Surrounded as we all are by signage, one often wonders about how, or if, you can tune it all out. If you can read the written word, it’s virtually impossible for the literate brain not to translate graphic messaging as language and process the printed symbols into words and thoughts. Given my notorious affections for the horror genre of literature and film, often has a certain postulate occurred to me – can you transmit a thought virus via the written word as supposed by HP Lovecraft and his dreaded Necronomicon? By thought virus, I’m referring to a “very bad idea” which induces instant madness in the reader – a sort of syllabic poison? As previously and multitudinously stated, I’m all ‘effed up.
“Iä! Iä! Cthulhu fhtagn! Ph’nglui mglw’nfah Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!” anyone?
Note: Over the years I’ve had a few friends who suffered from various mental illnesses, many of which center around paranoid delusions, and if I noticed them carrying around a tarot deck or some other occult contrivance I would start to worry. Paranoids should avoid any sort of divination and the occult in general, in my opinion, as Gnosticism excaberates their inclination towards visualizing and finding patterns in random events and the usage of a dininatory device tends to confirm the efficacy of their self created beliefs. Such patterns of thought are “very bad ideas” which often lead to fugue states which include inescapable logical traps and racing thoughts, as well as a false perception of enhanced physical abilities – a psychological state which often leads to traumatic medical and pharmaceutical interventions and world weary cops referring to them as an “EDP” or Emotionally Disturbed Person. (I’ve been there for a couple of people’s “enhanced” states and it sucks, they’re having what basically a “brain attack” and there’s naught you can do except stand there and listen while gathering up and hiding sharp implements from around the room.)
I always wonder – could it have been something I said?
– photo by Mitch Waxman
A “very bad idea” that’s transmitted by a bit of public signage, like the sort you’ll see when approaching the Brooklyn Queens Expressway from Northern Blvd. for example, would be a pernicious foeman. The vast numbers who witness it – even from blocks away – would all be transformed into homicidal madmen and madladies. We are surrounded by the written word, and any literate person has no choice but to instantaneously read and process what they see.
Imagine, if you will, a screed whose combination of nouns and verbs is capable of instantaneously inducing madness. You blunder in front of the message during your daily round, and the thought virus imparted by the signage shatters the gentile veil of civilization – reducing you into thundering mania – a homicidal lunatic bent on wreaking random and bloody havoc. What if such a phrase was displayed to an audience of thousands in a sports stadium, or at Grand Central Terminal, or in Times Square at rush hour? What if it was sent out over the amber alert system and every cell phone in NYC carried the thought virus? Would it be translatable to Spanish, or Urdu, or Mandarin? It could reach epidemic status within minutes via modern technologies.
“Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They have trod earth’s fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread,” anyone?
This would be, of course, some sort of sorcery – but perhaps our modern world just hasn’t found the correct combination of syllables to shatter society’s strongest chord yet.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
In such a world, where the “very bad idea” had propagated forth and infected the literate – we’d have to rely on the illiterate to find a solution. Perhaps this is what happened during the dark ages, and the Black Death wasn’t bubonic plague but rather a thought virus that nearly consumed all of Europe – leaving behind an illiterate nobility and peasantry to repopulate the devastated countryside? Can this be what happened to Roman civilization in the 3rd century AD?
Ever Their praises, and abundance to the Black Goat of the Woods. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!
How do you ignore the written word if you can read?
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
The Newtown Pentacle 