Posts Tagged ‘Pickman’
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
pathologically sensitive
Dead things, in today’s post.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The shots in today’s post are grotesque, so apologies are offered to the sensitive, but I seem to encounter a lot of dead things when marching about. It’s mentioned that this is the conclusion of my depressive week here at the Pentacle and that next week I plan on being absolutely manic. I also plan on the first week of November being an obsessive, compulsive, and quite disordered one.
What can I tell you, I’m all ‘effed up.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Thing about running around places (as a note, the first shot in today’s post was from Sheepshead Bay) like the Newtown Creek watershed is this – if you think it’s some kind of playground and you can do or say whatever you want, you could easily end up like the quasi recognizable squirrel smear pictured above. The squirrel didn’t think it was a playground, mind you, rather it likely reckoned that the neighborhood rules governing the surrounding urban environment applied in the creeklands. It didn’t count on getting squished by a multi ton truck which was hurtling along well at over the “Vision Zero” speed limit. The squirrel, like certain government employees, probably didn’t think that a truck might be barreling along at that speed, because that would be illegal. Government employees actually believe that the law applies and will be followed by the citizenry, in the absence of enforcement. Naive, the squirrels.
If you live in the trees, stay in the trees, and stay off of the street because you don’t understand the rules of the road.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Newtown Creek is as serious as a heart attack, lords and ladies, and the cops only patrol here when they have to. More often than not, they won’t even get out of the car. It’s just us down here in the street, me and the dead things and those dark forces, so when you sit around in your Manhattan apartment – think about that.
Me and the dead things don’t have somewhere else to call home, and Newtown Creek isn’t our hobby.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
scarcely envisage
The future is smaller than you’d think it is, in today’s post.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Since I’m in a bit of a Kafkaesque mood today, I figured I’d run a few pictures of some bugs I’ve met over the years. Bugs are like little war machines, and I’ve never been able to understand why the MIT types go to such pains reinventing the wheel when building robots and drones instead of just following nature’s solution. Why build one big hard to replace war robot when what you really want are a swarm of little cheap guys to do your nefarious bidding?
Also, bugs like that wasp pictured above might be a lot easier to enslave than you’d think. Imagine, what could you get done with an army of millions of ants doing your bidding? You’d certainly be able to “move that rubber tree plant,” despite the pop cultural aphorisms. If we could get control over the Termites, they could potentially build homes and cities for us.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
“Big Agra” is what my environmentalist buddies would call a company like Monsanto, who are the ExxonMobil of planting things and feeding animals. I’m sure they’ve got a staffer working on changing the preferences of this butterfly specie, or that one, so that instead of liking to visit and fertilize Milkweed or other pest crops, they would instead prefer to visit rye or wheat stalks. They’re also likely working on military applications for their butterfly technology. Butterflies who spy, or Butterlfies who disseminate toxins to an enemy’s fields?
Imagine a United States Marines Tactical Butterfly unit. I’d like to think the insect’s wings would be a camouflage pattern.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Weaponizing the bees and hornets would likely be the easiest thing to do. Everything I’ve ever read about bees suggest that just like termite mounds and ant nests, you have to consider the hive as being the living organism rather than consideing members of the community as individuals. A bee, or ant, isn’t very formidable on its own. When their Queen excretes the right sequence of pheromone triggers, however, the hive operates as a single organism. What you’re looking at above is actually a single cell of a far larger entity, programmed by an intelligence not its own to perform a task.
I would hope that the Marines get the tactical Butterflies, and that the Army gets the weaponized Bees.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
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