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Garden Buds, Flowers & Bees (Lens Test)
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This is a shot of some weeds in my neighbor's overgrown backyard. Just the other day he cleaned it up. I wonder why? :)
Courtesy of NYC Department of Taxation and Finance/ 1940s.nyc There’s a rule of thumb for city explorers: when a discovery seems too easy, it probably is. I was prowling the block, the sun beating down on the pavement, when I saw it. An entrance, tucked away beneath the shadowy tangle of sidewalk scaffolding, a side door was wide open. It was an invitation wrapped in a warning. The air was thick enough to swim through, that specific, suffocating brand of a New York City summer heatwave. I needed a moment, a prop. I ducked into the corner bodega, the bell on the door announcing my brief escape into the chilled air. Minutes later, I was back on the street with a cold can of AriZona Mucho Mango Juice Cocktail, its condensation a welcome relief against my palm. Standing nonchalantly on the sidewalk across the street, I took a long sip and began my watch. I wasn't just waiting for the right time; I was studying the rhythm of the street, waiting for a gap in the steady flow of people. ...
Hot Rod! This former state hospital is a bounty of quality graffiti art. The motorcycle frame above tends to move around with only one wheel. One cold evening, me and a friend I shall name S headed to this fine state hospital seeking the famed room of pigeon shit. Having parked within the grounds. We headed straight for S's contact entrance located behind one of the large buildings sitting on the perimeter of the fence. We headed around the whole building from left to right unable to find the entrance. We were extremely lucky not to be harassed or kicked out by the active security patrol on the grounds. Finding no exterior entrance inside the hospital building we headed to the front to check. To our surprise, what looked like a locked door was actually an open door hidden in plain sight. We placed a wooden stick in the doorway and headed inside. Barred views! News is dead amirite. First, we explored the dark ground floor filled with old furniture, chairs, a...
While exploring the area for a different site, I stumbled upon this abandoned property, marked by a large pile of household refuse and debris from commercial demolitions, improperly discarded. As night began to fall, I hesitated to venture inside alone. This caution might have been fortuitous, for on a subsequent visit to Newark, New Jersey, I discovered a makeshift bed crafted from an oversized couch. It seemed someone might be using this as a makeshift sleeping area, unwittingly inhaling potentially lethal chemicals not meant for human respiration. The entry to this forsaken place was through a semi-open truck loading dock, obstructed by a concrete barrier, presumably to halt further looting of the structure or to deter unethical contractors from dumping their illegal waste under the veil of night. Once an industrial site, this property was marred by environmental pollutants such as metals, paint, and polyaromatic hydrocarbons. Ninety-one years ago, it was operational before fa...
As I recall that April day in 2018, the memory unfolds with the vividness of a carefully preserved photograph. The sky, a vast expanse of unyielding blue, served as the perfect backdrop for our excursion. J and I, driven by curiosity and a keen sense of adventure, stood at the threshold of the historic Ballouville Mill in Killingly, Connecticut. This relic of a bygone industrial era was nestled imposingly between two homes as if guarding the secrets of its storied past. Our entry into the mill was less an act of intrusion and more a gentle push through time's veil. An opening – not quite a door, nor a window – beckoned us into the heart of a forgotten world. Inside, the mill presented itself as a cathedral of industry, now silent and solemn. Wooden beams and columns, like the ribs of a great leviathan, stretched upwards, supporting the weight of history and time. The machinery, once the pulsing heart of this place, had long since ceased their hum of productivity. In their absence...
I'll be honest: I wasn't sure how this post would fit into the broader theme of my website. But over the years, I've stumbled across so much incredible work by graffiti artists that it felt wrong not to share it. And this Zexor roller tribute? It demanded attention. Bold, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore, it was the kind of piece that stops you mid-step and forces you to look. What makes this one especially remarkable is that it's still standing. The small park where it lives has since been renovated and reopened to the general public, and somehow, the NYC Parks Department didn't paint over it during the process. They left it right where it was. That decision, whether intentional or simply overlooked, gives this modest little park a character that most others in the city can only dream of. It stands out. It has a voice. And that voice belongs to Zexor. I think about moments like these more often than you'd expect. There's one in particular that still n...
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