Posts Tagged ‘weirdness’
embowered banks
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Walking through Calvary Cemetery recently, directly following the so called Hunters Moon recently enjoyed by all, your humble narrator decided to check in on “The Tree fed by a Morbid Nutrition” which has been observed as the site of occult activity in the recent past. The postings “Triskadekaphobic Paranoia” and “Update on the Calvary Knots” discussed the tree and its locale in some detail. It’s a lonely spot at a high elevation, a lost corner in the emerald devastations of Calvary.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The four paper bags were artfully concealed, and neatly arranged. It was only while walking a widdershin circumnavigation of the loathsome arbor that they were noticed. The path taken by most is alien to one such as myself, and long experience suggests that it is often profitable to investigate the hidden. Accordingly, a pocket tool was employed and one of the little sacks was inspected.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The jingle of coins was detected, although not visually observed. Magickal practice often involves direct involvement with bodily fluids and other esoteric compounds- some pharmacological in nature and possibly psychoactive- and it is best to not touch such artifacts with bare skin. Additionally, for those of you who subscribe to a supranormal world view which includes the presence of invisible intelligences and intangible entities possessed of power beyond human imagination, there are other possible exposures which might emanate from violating a ritual altar.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The package included some sort of vegetable or fruit, which had an incision midway through its ovum. Normally, it would be time for one to speculate on either the magickal or occult philosophy represented by this peasant altar, but frankly- leaving four sacks of incised vegetative matter and coinage in a deserted cemetery altar is one thing which I do not wish to speculate upon. A growing sense of dread and paranoid wonderings began to envelop me and I decided to just leave this thing to itself. In Calvary Cemetery, and all burial grounds, one hopes to leave naught but a single set of footprints behind, and carry nothing but photographs back out through the stout iron gates.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The (possible) Witch Knots were still in place on neighboring monuments, it should be mentioned.
Also- Upcoming tours…
for an expanded description of the October 13th Kill Van Kull tour, please click here
for an expanded description of the October 20th Newtown Creek tour, please click here
something luminous
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Whittling away the remaining days allowed me to scuttle across the mortal coil, recent adventures have taken me to odd places. Last weekend, a humble narrator found himself in a canoe upon the fabled Newtown Creek, participating in a Newtown Creek Alliance survey of avian inhabitants of the waterway. This trip was facilitated via the equipment and skill of the mariners found at the North Brooklyn Boat Club. Discussion of this trip, and those things which we observed, will be explored in future postings as this- your Newtown Pentacle.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Additionally, revelations of upcoming walking tours and other excursions I will be leading in October and beyond are coming in the next week. A flurry of such endeavors in prior months had laid one low, as to be seen by so many diminishes me. A vow offered to you, lords and ladies, is to return to historical exploration and description in the coming weeks. I’ve tales to tell, which have been sitting on the back burner for months, due to a lack of time to cogently describe and detail.
Suffice to say that we have only scratched the lipid coated surface of the Creek to this point, and we shall be diving deeper into its languid depths in the near future.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
There are several opportunities for enjoyment and exploration at hand, including the Field Trip day in Greenpoint on September 29th.
Queens Borough Historian Jack Eichenbaum will be conducting a Newtown Creek walking tour next week which I am looking forward to attending, also on September 29th.
Additionally, Newtown Creek Alliance has several events (not necessarily “Mitchcentric) and a meeting- at the Onderdonk House on September 27 in Ridgewood- upcoming, which have just been announced. These events include an October 7th boat tour which will be part of the Open House NY Weekend.
This is the end of the summer, officially, as tomorrow we enter into the equinox and the autumn season officially begins. Grateful thanks are offered to all the better than 600 people who have shared my summer- attending the multitudinous walking, bus, and boat tours which I’ve been involved with.
Also, a shout out on the efforts and exertions of the vernal period goes out to the long suffering “Our Lady of the Pentacle” and her infinite patience, and to my “aide de camp” and first officer Mai Armstrong.
something alarming
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Another one of the little mottoes which one such as myself offers “it’s not good, it’s not bad, it just is”. Time spent wandering around the vast human hive, with it’s teeming multitudes and aspirants, has taught me that it makes little sense to adjudicate the values of others. That being said, whilst on a pastoral stroll across the rolling landscape of Calvary Cemetery, your humble narrator found himself in Section Five.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
This is the shot I was seeking, the ennobled Kosciuszko Bridge, as seen from the vantage of Review Avenue and Laurel Hill Blvd. and from atop the high walls of Calvary. Coming to this spot, one noticed something odd- out of place- nearby.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Upon the ground was some sort of fruiting vine, set behind a small line of high grass and small shrubs.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Struck by the ideation that some accidental seeding might have taken place, unnoticed by the grounds crew, I looked around a bit.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
That’s when I discovered that somebody had planted a little garden, here in an ancient cemetery.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Nearby, there were grapes growing as well.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
It’s not good, it’s not bad, it just is. It’s also the sort of thing which really makes one question his own sanity, and thank all that’s holy that I’m able to photograph this as it is exactly the sort of story no one would believe. Tangential thoughts occur- speculations on the morbid nutrition enjoyed by these plants, suppositions about the water table they drink from (which is VERY much Newtown Creek), and other pleasant notions torment and tantalize. It’s not good, it’s not bad, it just is. It’s not good, it’s not bad, it just is. It’s not good, it’s not bad, it just is…
something singular
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The good news is that the fragmented vernal season wherein required sleep was denied a humble narrator has ended, and one can reliably pass into unconsciousness again. The bad news is that the hallucinations which tear through my mind during these biologically mandated times reveal bizarre and disturbing psychological concerns. Likely, this is all due to the upcoming equinox and accordingly one must go to where one belongs to sort such matters out. All roads, after all, lead to Calvary…
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The great working of Dagger John, scratched into the Newtown soil in 1848, First Calvary (as it is known) is the polyandrion of the Roman Catholic Church of New York City. Millions are interred here, princes and paupers, governors and gangsters. Upon entering the gates of the 365 acre property adjoining the Newtown Creek, one shortly realizes that the ephemeral analogies of the spiritual world are a tangible reality in this place. Encountered recently, one of the lagomorphs known to inhabit this section, representative of a population of groundling burrowers.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The burrowers, according to aboriginal mythologies, carry messages between the bright world of the surface and the fuligin grottoes of the subterrene. Prey animals, the Lagomorpha fear all things- experience has taught them of the brutal indignities of the canine, stealth and pursuit of the feline, and the overarching horror of the high flying raptors. Vulnerable on the surface, and revealed beneath the burning thermonuclear eye of god itself, the burrowers normally bolt when one nears.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
What message the lagomorphs reveal to those who consult them is not to be shared, as it emanates from a place where no light shines. As above, so below- the saying goes, and one who walks in the middle does not wish to anger or prejudice either. As far as the odd dreams and premonitions which occur to a humble narrator during those hated intervals of unconsciousness- nothing transmitted by the red eyed messenger seemed to pertain to current fantasies. Instead, dire warnings of an uncertain future and intimations of seasonal horror were hinted at. More to come on these topics, as we pass through the autumnal equinox, at this- your Newtown Pentacle.
old bugs
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Definitely on the mend, for my mind returns to thoughts of vengeance and contemplations upon the lamentations of my enemies. Still not quite at 100 percent, but the pernicious microorganisms which have infected my flesh seem to have realized their mistake in entering me.
Why not check out some lesser known Lovecraft stories while ill, I always ask- hence- check out the ineluctable pleasures contained at hplovecraft.com
From “Old Bugs” by HP Lovecraft
Sheehan’s Pool Room, which adorns one of the lesser alleys in the heart of Chicago’s stockyard district, is not a nice place. Its air, freighted with a thousand odours such as Coleridge may have found at Cologne, too seldom knows the purifying rays of the sun; but fights for space with the acrid fumes of unnumbered cheap cigars and cigarettes which dangle from the coarse lips of unnumbered human animals that haunt the place day and night. But the popularity of Sheehan’s remains unimpaired; and for this there is a reason—a reason obvious to anyone who will take the trouble to analyse the mixed stenches prevailing there. Over and above the fumes and sickening closeness rises an aroma once familiar throughout the land, but now happily banished to the back streets of life by the edict of a benevolent government—the aroma of strong, wicked whiskey—a precious kind of forbidden fruit indeed in this year of grace 1950.
Sheehan’s is the acknowledged centre to Chicago’s subterranean traffic in liquor and narcotics, and as such has a certain dignity which extends even to the unkempt attachés of the place; but there was until lately one who lay outside the pale of that dignity—one who shared the squalor and filth, but not the importance, of Sheehan’s. He was called “Old Bugs”, and was the most disreputable object in a disreputable environment. What he had once been, many tried to guess; for his language and mode of utterance when intoxicated to a certain degree were such as to excite wonderment; but what he was, presented less difficulty—for “Old Bugs”, in superlative degree, epitomised the pathetic species known as the “bum” or the “down-and-outer”. Whence he had come, no one could tell. One night he had burst wildly into Sheehan’s, foaming at the mouth and screaming for whiskey and hasheesh; and having been supplied in exchange for a promise to perform odd jobs, had hung about ever since, mopping floors, cleaning cuspidors and glasses, and attending to an hundred similar menial duties in exchange for the drink and drugs which were necessary to keep him alive and sane.
Read the rest at hplovecraft.com
The Newtown Pentacle 