Archive for the ‘Queens’ Category
humanless region
“follow” me on Twitter at @newtownpentacle
– photo by Mitch Waxman
As one might have observed in recent media reports, the Mayor of New York City and certain hand picked lieutenants and allies deployed the “golden shovels” and officially “broke ground” at the so called Hunters Point South project in Long Island City. Funny, as construction has been going on around here for a while, mainly on improving the archaic sewer and water system.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
On second street, there is a long ditch currently extant which reveals part of this work. Much of what is happening around here, I am led to believe, is closer to the East River. This assertion is easily proven if one is a customer of the East River Ferry, as the fence line one follows to the dock winds its way along the early phases of the construction site where this grandiose plumbing is being installed.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Spongy, the soil at Hunters Point has seen a lot of industrial tenants come and go over the centuries. At the penultimate southern terminus of the street is the notorious Newtown Creek, to the west is the squamous East River- which was known as the River of Sound to ancient mariners. Interestingly enough- the ground water, or at least the bits of it which have percolated into this pit, is not dissimilar in color or appearance to the very end of the Newtown Creek’s distant tributary English Kills in Bushwick.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Surprisingly, the “layer cake” normally observed in Long Island City street repairs was not visible. Like lower Manhattan and Downtown Brooklyn, the streets are several centuries deep, and one will often see several layers of different pavement technologies on display. If one is very lucky and the street is very old- a layer of compacted and oiled earth, capped by a white chalky substance surmounted by a layer or two of gravel which lies under Belgian Blocks then cement and tar and then concrete and asphalt might be observed.
I’ve got a shot or two from Queens Plaza in which this layer cake is obviously encountered, for instance.
blazing through
“follow” me on Twitter at @newtownpentacle
– photo by Mitch Waxman
An ongoing saga, the repairs visited upon a formerly smoldering Con Ed street pit here in Astoria continue unabated. The repair crew visualized in the images adorning this post wore Orange (the first wore blue), as can plainly be perceived, but a third unit arrived who were clad in grayish white costume. This tertiary band of pale laborers escaped photographic scrutiny, I am afraid, but the Oranges were not so lucky. For the first installment of this ongoing urban epic, vist the post “perfect service” and the ancillary “shrank away.”
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The Orange brigade attacked the street vengefully, hurling their equipment at the pavement with an alacrity and conviction terrifying to behold. It felt to one such as myself, a deadened and unfeeling thing, that these Oranges might have been offended by this street pit’s very existence. Again, and again, the blades of shovel and diesel powered earth mover were hurled noisily against the street pit and its surroundings.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Suddenly, they were done with the task at hand, whereupon certain members of this crew began to secure trophies of their victory. Happily, these trophies were gathered onboard a waiting truck, no doubt to be carted off and displayed as totems of sacrifice, vigor, and prowess. When they were finished with the collection of their stony prize, a large sheet of steel was produced from the truck and lowered- ominously- over the far widened maw of the street pit.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
This is not the same safety cone which was detailed in the second posting, that one made its way down Broadway over the course of a few days where it was run over by dozens of trucks. This is the new one, which came along with the steel plate. As more news develops, a humble narrator (who still hasn’t forgotten nor forgiven Consolidated Edison’s Great Astoria Blackout of 2006) shall of course bring it to you at this- your Newtown Pentacle.
groping again
“follow” me on Twitter at @newtownpentacle
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Perhaps one has become an internet troll.
I do spend an awful lot of time scuttling around beneath bridges and overhead trusses of all kinds, while wandering throughout the concrete devastations of the Newtown Pentacle. Then I find myself posting photos of them to the internet, which offers connection via correlation. As the scions of some mythical “old neighborhood” might proffer: “Dictionary definition, look here douchebag, trolls live under bridges. That means you a fucking troll. Fuck you, troll.”
That really is a quote, incidentally, from a Dungeons and Dragons comrade in Canarsie back during the 1980’s. Essential usage of the Brooklyn patois, at that time, always involved explaining your work when cursing someone out. It was a gentler age, when a young Joe Piscopo taught us all how to laugh again.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Perhaps, one can be cast as a paparazzo for decaying infrastructure and artisan pollution instead. Imagine a humble narrator clad in scarf and motor scooter, zipping around town searching for remnants of the forgotten and occluded world of fat rendering and manufactured gas while always keeping a watchful eye on the once and future king of the Creeks, called Newtown.
Dynamic, this lifestyle of the paparazzi would, given the poor and mediocre existence currently endured, irrevocably brighten ones outlook.
Back in the “old neighborhood,” which was not all that old or really much of a neighborhood, it was opined as best to keep ones sights set low lest disappointment and regret rule ones mind in extreme old age. It was commonly decided that prudence demanded the acquisition of a government job with benefits and regular hours, receiving a pension after 25 years, and then moving away from “all the bullshit” to be the best course of action one could take.
There were a lot of cops, garbage men, firemen, and EMT’s in the old neighborhood. Nurses too.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Unfortunately, it does seem that one has indeed become this much maligned creature of hideous modernity called an “Internet troll.” If you spot some scruffy bag of mostly water, all wrapped up in a filthy black raincoat and scuttling about while clumsily picking its path around and beneath a bridge, that very well might be me.
What else it might be, for my countenance is somewhat unbearable to behold by the unprepared and there are certain asymmetrical oddities in my gait and postures which defy impersonation, few can say. I will continue to post these captured photons on the internet, notwithstanding that they might be dispatches from Trollheim.
curiously dislocated
“follow” me on Twitter at @newtownpentacle
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Although it is the Mother of harlots, entering Manhattan on a regular basis is periodically required of your humble narrator, for none may trade nor sell in the City of New York lest this borough’s mark is upon them. Usually this journey is accomplished along the subterranean R line, but often will one walk over to the elevated N line on the 31st street side of the neighborhood just to mix things up. You take the low road, I’ll take the high road, and I’ll be in midtown before ye…
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The Shining City, a place which your humble narrator actually lived for many years, has become lost in an inferior incarnation of itself. One does not long for the era of sin and fornication recently passed, it is the modern facade of the City which agitates. Many disagree with me, arguing for acceptance of a halcyon and quite modern era of progress and development which will eradicate the mistakes of prior centuries. All I can tell you, in retort, is that I don’t see many autochthonous smiles in Manhattan. Also, $9 is too much for a tuna sandwich.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
An echo chamber, things there are no longer hot, nor cold- rather they are lukewarm. Don’t get me wrong, there ain’t no mountain spring water running out here in Astoria neither, there are oodles of things wrong in Brooklyn and Queens. I’m sure the Bronx and …Staten Island… likely have some problems too. I’m just saying that we don’t export them, unlike the unsustainable island of Manhattan, and that I- for one- am a lot more comfortable and likelier to be smiling here in Queens.
curious noises
“follow” me on Twitter at @newtownpentacle
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Admission that Malthus was probably right in adopting a dire tone is offered, something which occurred to me while sitting in a dank concrete bunker and waiting interminably for a Manhattan bound Subway. The worst of all possible situations – alone with my own blasphemous and fever inducing thoughts. Racing phantasms leapt about behind my brow, as train after train exited Manhattan moving east. Each electrically powered chain of metal boxes which entered and left this dripping subterranean bunker seemed to be full of humans, but it is impossible to say with certainty who- or indeed “what”- might have been cradled within.
Finally, a cyclopean shape appeared in the distance of the cement corridor.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Realization that the alloyed conveyance proceeding in the particular direction desired by one such as myself was at hand resulted in a humble narrator sitting uncomfortably amongst the many. Judgement and condemnation was surely brewing in their minds, as furtive glances revealed hostile stares. At the other end of the car were a group of teenagers, and I was reminded of media reports describing the peer group’s outré and often violent delinquency as well as rumors detailing their drug fueled rampages. The practice of running rampant is prevalent in the youth of these degenerate days, after all.
Toward the corner which I faced, an older woman was knitting, just a bit too nonchalantly for my taste.
Perspiration began to drip coldly down my back, which was fully hidden beneath a filthy black raincoat which smells of sewers and wood smoke, and my breathing became erratic.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Imminent, waves of sudden panic eliminated my desire to enter the Shining City of Manhattan onboard this crowded contraption. One departed this underworld, carven into the marshy soils of Queens itself, to once more gaze upon the greasy skies of Long Island City. Standing in a small patch of transmission oil and shattered glass, as a castaway McDonalds bag found its wind blown course to my leg while some strange but obviously relieved inebriate urinated into a phone booth, calm reason once again overtook me. Home, at last.
Down in those concrete catacombs, how can one ever know what horrors are of the mind alone or hint at what there may be that is lurking down there?
