Posts Tagged ‘Pickman’
burst open
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Recent business, if you must ask, is the reason I found myself visiting …Staten Island… Kevin Walsh of forgotten-ny.com wanted, sensibly enough given the sylvan landscaping and thoughtful architecture of the place, to offer a walking tour of St. George as part of his ambitious schedule of “2nd Saturday” walking tours. As an accomplice in his fiendish revelations, I was forced to return to this place by land.
It is one thing to motor past …Staten Island… on a ship or highway, and another thing entirely to touch it with your feet. This is when you are helpless, a pedestrian lost in a land of motor vehicles and steep hills, and movement noticed behind dark curtains might said to be an implied rather than suggested hint of an occluded occupant.
from silive.com
For the past two days, visitors to a park in Staten Island’s Fort Wadsworth section have stumbled upon a gory mystery — a mutilated animal, possibly a dog or a goat, wrapped in a white sheet.
Parkgoers found two such animals in Von Briesen Park yesterday and this morning, city Parks Department officials confirmed.
The discovery has sparked speculation of ritual sacrifice and cult activity, and has led one Port Richmond woman to douse part of the ground where one animal was found with holy water, in an attempt to ward off what she believes is an evil presence.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Overly sensitive to sleights, always ready to interpret malicious intent in an innocent gesture, your humble narrator nevertheless prides himself on what Brooklyn kids might call “spidey sense”. When certain instincts and triggers begin to fire off, the imperative to “get out of dodge” becomes overwhelming and flight ensues, if I am clever enough to acknowledge this “tingle”.
Every time I’m on the island which Richmond County squats upon, I start to tingle.
from silive.com
Staten Island ranks second in the overall suicide rate out of all five boroughs, behind only Manhattan, according to the most recent state Department of Health statistics.
In 2005, the most recent year available, there were 6.9 suicides on the Island per 100,000 people. Manhattan was the only borough that had more, with 7.6 suicides per 100,000; rates for the Bronx, Brooklyn and Queens were 4.8, 4.6 and 5.4, respectively.
Sudden changes in behavior or personality; feelings of desperation, helplessness, hopelessness, aloneness, loss and depression; previous suicide attempt; and most importantly, suicide statements expressing a desire or intention to die are all some of the warning signs that sometimes go overlooked, experts say.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Over the years paying attention to this “tingle”, sometimes felt by Our Lady of the Pentacle instead of me, has aided me in avoiding multiple encounters with the Constabulatory, allowed me to escape a burning building twice, and facilitated in sidestepping some of the dire consequences of a degenerate youth. Additionally, I seem to know which days it would be fortuitous to call in sick to work, intuitively avoid traffic jams and transit logjams, and when some baser denizen of the NY streets sets their sights on me- I know it.
It has long been my belief that physical cowardice is a genetic inheritance, a gift from timorousness ancestors who managed to run away before the Vikings or Mongols found them.
from wikipedia
Snug Harbor was founded by the 1801 bequest of New York tycoon Captain Robert Richard Randall for whom the nearby neighborhood of Randall Manor is named. Randall left his country estate, Manhattan property bounded by Fifth Avenue and Broadway and Eighth and 10th Streets, to build an institution to care for “aged, decrepit and worn-out” seamen. The opening of the sailor’s home was delayed by extended contests of the will by Randall’s disappointed heirs. When Sailors’ Snug Harbor opened in 1833, it was the first home for retired merchant seamen in the history of the United States. It began with a single building, now the centerpiece in the row of five Greek Revival temple-like buildings on the New Brighton waterfront.
Captain Thomas Melville, a retired sea captain and brother of Moby-Dick author Herman Melville, was governor of Snug Harbor from 1867 to 1884.
In 1890, Captain Gustavus Trask, the governor of Snug Harbor, built a Renaissance Revival church, the Randall Memorial Chapel and, next to it, a music hall, both designed by Robert W. Gibson.
Approximately 1,000 retired sailors lived at Snug Harbor at its peak in the late 19th century, when it was among the wealthiest charities in New York. Its Washington Square area properties yielded a surplus exceeding the retirement home’s costs by $100,000 a year.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
There are places which terrify, and intimidate. …Staten Island… with it’s hoary past and terrifying implications of Old World conspiracy- accomplishes both for me. I prefer to focus on what floats past the place, observing from the safety of running water, rather than delve too deeply into the rumors of those things which have been witnessed in the trees near Willowbrook.
from artsjournal.com
All “aged decrepit and warn-out sailors” were accepted. Even some blacks. Eventually the Harbor also allowed steamboat sailors and inland sailors from lakes and rivers too, but they were no doubt frowned upon as not being adventurous enough. Once, while trying to affix a sculpture to one of the walls, we found a sealed-off compartment containing a book of photographs of hundreds of inmates (as the retired seamen were called). Here and there were some dark faces. All races and nationalities were welcomed. Only “habitual alcoholics and those with contagious disease or immoral character were banned.”
haven of light
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Do not bring up the subject of sleep to your humble narrator, for even the thought of entering into that trance state- with it’s concurrently wild hallucinations- is enough to cause both physical and mental strain upon my delicate equilibrium. Just thinking about lying helpless in the dark waiting to slip into this inevitable oblivion is enough to make me breath rapidly and experience irregular cardiac rhythms while sweating profusely. The psychological effects of such inferences manifest as a confused, trembling, and amorphous fear which betrays a dread terror and malign panic.
I’m all ‘effed up.
from wikipedia
The fear of the dark is a common fear among children and to a varying degree is observed for adults. Fear of the dark is usually not fear of the darkness itself, but fear of possible or imagined dangers concealed by the darkness. Some degree of fear of the dark is natural, especially as a phase of child development. Most observers report that fear of the dark seldom appears before the age of 2 years. When fear of the dark reaches a degree that is severe enough to be considered pathological, it is sometimes called nyctophobia (from Greek νυξ, “night” and φοβια, phobia), scotophobia, from σκότος – “darkness”, or lygophobia, from λυγή – “twilight” and achluophobia.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Severe, my psychic pathologies demand isolation from others, easy to achieve by being awake while everyone else is asleep. Terrifying possibilities of what might lurk out there in the darkness torment my imagination, and I can only feel safe when blanketed in electronic light. There are stories of untoward and unexpected occurrences observed during the Great Astoria Blackout of 2006 whose meanings are only now beginning to coalesce into some sort of sensible shape, things that can exist only in the safe fuligin which no sensibly illumined skeptical New Yorker might expect. Thresholds throughout the ancient village knew lurkers, and odd shinings were described emanating from certain ruined or lightning cursed churches which dot the rolling hillocks of Astoria.
From beneath the streets an azure glow and acrid scent escaped, and rough havoc was unleashed, I’m sure.
from wikipedia
Panphobia, from the Greek ‘pan’ and ‘phobos,’ also called Omniphobia, Pantophobia, or Panophobia, is a medical condition known as a “non-specific fear” or “the fear of everything” and is described as “a vague and persistent dread of some unknown evil”, or only seeing the extremes to everything.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
To help pass the lonely hours of nocturnal hand wringing, tooth gnashing, and guilty self recrimination I have taken to long exposure photography which allows me to feel as if something had been accomplished before weakness and fatigue forced me into surrendering to that familiar cycle of deteriorating into unconsciousness, hallucination, and dazed awakening. Stumbling out into the streets the next and every day- into and beneath the direct gaze of the burning thermonuclear eye of god itself- emanations sting at my skin and if exposed to them for not so long a time, radiation burns will begin to manifest.
from wikipedia
Erythropoietic protoporphyria (EPP) is a relatively mild form of porphyria, although very painful, which arises from a deficiency in the enzyme ferrochelatase, leading to abnormally high levels of protoporphyrin in the tissue. The severity varies significantly from individual to individual…
EPP can be triggered through exposure to sun even though the patient is behind glass. Even the UV emissions from arc welding with the use of full protective mask have been known to trigger EPP.
Prolonged exposure to the sun can lead to edema and blistering. At times the immediate damage can be so severe that the individual can lose the skin in sheets.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Doctor friends have advised me that my aversion to this hideous biological malady is unavoidable, and described timetables which offer precise time periods during which the kidneys and liver may cleanse the blood of toxins, and the function of cellular growth and repair is based around sleep as well I am told. As well, psychiatric and psychological sources describe the chronic loss or avoidance of sleep as some sort of disorder.
Well, what do lettered academics know anyway? Have they rode with the tomb legions over the frozen steppes of nephren ka, or flown with the night gaunts through low hanging branches over the Lethe, or walked a mile in my moccasins?
from wikipedia
Sleep deprivation is the condition of not having enough sleep; it can be either chronic or acute. A chronic sleep-restricted state can cause fatigue, daytime sleepiness, clumsiness and weight loss or weight gain. It adversely affects the brain and cognitive function. Few studies have compared the effects of acute total sleep deprivation and chronic partial sleep restriction. Complete absence of sleep over long periods is impossible for humans to achieve (unless they suffer from fatal familial insomnia); brief microsleeps cannot be avoided. Long-term total sleep deprivation has caused death in lab animals.
without voice
– photo by Mitch Waxman
For the fullest sensation of joy, please check out this Newtown Pentacle post: “Weirdly Afar“, from March 25 of 2011.
Were it that just a day or two ago I hadn’t confessed publicly my fears of descending into some megalomaniacal state and an inevitable attempt to set myself up as a comic book villain, this new throne might have been the one. Black and silver are my personal colors, after all, and this would fit the macabre decor by which Newtown Pentacle HQ is known and remarked upon by the sturdy Croats which people this section of my beloved Astoria.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Illumined by a shaft of emerald light, this throne would sit in the middle of a large room cloaked by shadow, located somewhere deep below Newtown Creek. My lackeys and henchmen, whom I would call the WaxMen, would kneel before this throne awaiting my biddings which they would then do.
(my friend Chris, by the way, claims these are supposed to be Lions- I think they look like surprised Baboons. Any thoughts, Lords and Ladies?)
– photo by Mitch Waxman
From this lair of mine, a nexus of absolute intent and malediction of wholesomeness, would my gloved hand reach out- and were the world to have just one throat…
…Sheesh…
This is why I can’t ever be allowed to have a throne.
Funny thing is that a couple of days ago, somebody emailed me asking where the store was. I think it was a fashion industry thing.
feeble horns
Hell Gate and Triborough bridges from Old Astoria – photo by Mitch Waxman
Loathsome memories of recent setbacks- and also of certain rebuffs- plague your humble narrator during these gloomy and sunless days, and always only solace can offer nepenthe. Thus, during a recent stroll by the pacific maelstrom of Hell Gate, nestled between two steel structures whose unearthly vibrations and omnipresent vocalizations form the aural environment- this series of shots were captured.
curiously scattered bones on sidewalk in Astoria – photo by Mitch Waxman
Vengeance and malice, indeed all of the seven deadly transgressions, populate the infernal dream world which has plagued me since childhood. Of late, a vivid character has typified these somnambulist hallucinations, and at least once during the night I’ll awaken in cold sweat grasping at the void of a curtain draped chamber. Surely, these negative humors are manifestations of another failing displayed by your humble narrator and least of all men, the inability to not bear grudges well beyond all sensible intervals.
sinister seeming bird at Hells Gate – photo by Mitch Waxman
Having grown up in a lonely and isolated existence, in dusty rooms of sculptured green carpeting and vinyl covered couches with odd knick knacks that betrayed basic tenets of adherence to the Hebrew faith, family members carried a charge of eastern European distrust for outsiders. Don’t trust anyone, my mother used to tell me while still in the cradle. As such, your humble narrator has grown into a hostile and suspicious man, contemptuous of authority even when such authority is necessary to govern over and control chaos and anarchy.
Amtrak at Hellegat Hell Gate Bridge – photo by Mitch Waxman
Often I stand on a point of principle, in a combative and tenacious- and vastly unpopular- stand over small matters such as allowing a police officer the right to inspect my belongings on demand. Of course I realize the age we are living in is fraught with the consequences of living in a global military empire the likes of which even the Romans or Turks would gasp and genuflect at, and that to most “standard of living” trumps “individual rights” but the constables have to follow the rules too. That’s what our modern Metropolis operates on, and as the saying in Brooklyn used to go “if I gots to stands in lines, youse gotta stands in da line”.
Psychiatric Hospitals at Hell Gate – photo by Mitch Waxman
Often, I fear that someday my darker impulses will take control of me, and I’ll spin off and become some comic book villain like parody of myself, the defeated antihero of a cosmic parable. Perhaps I will be remembered as a cautionary tale, your humble narrative of the man who looked under too many rocks. The Rumpelstiltskin of Newtown Creek, or perhaps just some old man in a shack who talks only to a collection of bottles?
Wards Island from Hell Gate – photo by Mitch Waxman
Preoccupations with such bizarre concerns has led me to believe in and visualize conspiracy lurking behind every corner. The attentions of certain malign elements, teenage adherents to some form of the Hip Hop cult, have been noted milling about around headquarters of late. Additionally, strange vehicles not usually parked in the neighborhood have been observed, adorned with mysterious antennae and blacked out windows- even on the windshield, which is unusual in itself due to municipal regulation.
Such bizarre notions, undoubtedly the product of lonely studies and a massive workload, were what led me to seek the solace of Astoria Park. I had hoped (futilely as turns out) to photograph passing Tugboats, but instead grew focused on certain uluations which seemed to be emerging from the impossibly distant Psychiatric hospitals at Wards Island…
The President of the United States on Marine 1 over Hell Gate – photo by Mitch Waxman
And that’s when the President of the United States flew by in Marine One on his way to the World Trade Center site to commemorate the death of his arch enemy.
In short, I’m all ‘effed up, and this post hits six points out of seven of the ICD-10 for paranoid personality type.
And the Newtown Pentacle is back in session.
enigmatic fragments
– photo by Mitch Waxman
This blog post is not about Osama Bin Laden or LeBron James, has little or nothing to say about Charlie Sheen or Hosni Mubarek, and it’s production has not been influenced in any way by fluctuations in the Producer Price Index or any other leading financial indicators. Additionally, it is not sponsored by the Pew Charitable Trust nor a grant from the Koch foundation.
Instead, the focus of this post is about a silted over, non navigable, and relict tributary of the Newtown Creek found fairly close to the dead bang geographic center of New York City called Maspeth Creek.
It is apparently a good place to get rid of an unwanted automobile or two,
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Your humble narrator seems to end up here a lot, as until just recently, it was one of the few places in Queens where one might witness the terrible grandeur of the Newtown Creek up close and personal with a minimum of hassle from private security or curious inquiries from the local gendarme. A large lot, overgrown with thorny plants, all stained with that peculiar colour- which is like something out of space- allowed some access to the place. Alas, the owner of the febrile lot seems to have found some new usage for it, and the fences have gone up.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One of the great problems associated with Newtown Creek, and an obstacle to the efforts being made by Newtown Creek Alliance and other groups to reveal the history and significance of the place to the vast new populations being installed in Greenpoint and Long Island City by certain Real Estate interests is the fact that the Creek is hidden in most places by anonymous warehouses and industrial sites not friendly to casual visitors. The point of view of the property owners is one of liability for injury, and they have entirely appropriate concerns. The Newtown Creek can be a dangerous place, with multi ton trucks and gargantuan machinery whizzing around on streets where few pedestrians or bicyclists are normally seen. Not far from this spot, your humble narrator found himself falling into a hole in the roadway (at the end of the winter) which was nearly a yard deep.
Those of you out there who wander the rail tracks, however, are being foolhardy. The threat to your very existence is manifest, and should you be prosecuted for trespass, mandatory sentencing applies.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Other area bloggers and several urban explorers have taken me to task over the years for my admonitions reminding readers of this, your Newtown Pentacle, to remain cautious and alert of their surroundings when exploring the creek lands. There are forces here, sinister and hidden, which like the Creek just the way it is and don’t appreciate strangers with cameras wandering through their back yards. Additionally, the purely physical hazards of high speed traffic (the issue of trucks moving through Maspeth and other residential neighborhoods is a long standing and somewhat intractable issue, I would suggest a visit to the folks at COMET for more on the situation) and broken road surfaces must be factored in around these parts.
Recently, I almost got Kevin Walsh of forgotten-ny killed on Metropolitan Avenue- which goes to show that even those well versed in navigating these streets can end up in an emergency room after visiting the area. Kevin is fine by the way, his scalp is back in one piece, he just can’t say any word in which the second letter is a “c” for awhile- although his physicians swear this is only temporary.
Lastly, a safe way to experience the Newtown Creek:
It is critical for you to purchase tickets for the Newtown Creek Cruise soon. We’re filling up rapidly and seating is limited. Your humble narrator is acting as chairman for this journey, and spectacular guest speakers are enlisted to be onboard. Click here to order tickets.
From workingharbor.com
he May 21st, Newtown Creek Cruise:
Explore Newtown Creek by Boat
Saturday, 21 May, 2011
Pier 17, South Street Seaport.
Departs 10 am sharp
Returns 1 pm
Price: $60
Join us for a special water tour with expert narration from historical and environmental guest speakers.
There are limited tickets available on the MV American Princess for a very rare tour of Newtown Creek. Guest narrators will cover points of industrial and historical interest as well as environmental and conservation issues during your three-hour exploration. New York’s forgotten history will be revealed – as well as bright plans for the creeks future.
MV American Princess is a large, comfortable vessel with indoor and outdoor seating. Complimentary soft drinks and a tour brochure are included.
Cruise runs rain or shine
Queries? Contact Tour Chairman Mitch Waxman: waxmanstudio@gmail.com
Hosted by Hidden Harbor Tours ® in association with the Newtown Creek Alliance.
