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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? :)
This is all that remains of the Ninth Avenue New York City line. A derelict trashed platform that sits forlornly above a Bronx street. Filled with all manner of trash, bottles, discarded waste, and other detritus. At one point, a baby kitten appeared underneath a wet plywood board and began to clean itself. Just minutes ago I saw a large feline cat scurrying over the nearby fence with abandon. I took my shots and left in a huff. The platform certainly had its days in the past as a once-beginning spot towards the Bronx Polo grounds, but now it sits above it's closed-off platform station at street level. Certainly, the graffiti has changed from the photographs seen here and various urban exploration videos of this Ninth Avenue line subway platform. Now, let us take a look at the ever-changing graffiti at this location. It would be fun to revisit this location next year to see the changes.
In the heart of Albany, nestled amidst the echoes of its bustling past, lies an abandoned warehouse, a treasure trove of stories untold until now. This isn't just any derelict structure; it's the cornerstone of my urban exploration journey, the first of many, but forever the one that initiated me into the world of forgotten spaces. Let's call it the ultimate introduction, the genesis of a passion that has since defined my adventures. Our story begins on a crisp, cold morning that promises adventure. I vividly remember the excitement bubbling up as I set off to pick up my companion, referred to here as "A," from Queens. The journey from the familiar streets of our neighborhood to the unknown mysteries of Albany stretched over three hours, a pilgrimage to our very own urban Mecca. We arrived ahead of schedule, anticipation building as we waited in the chilling embrace of dawn, our breaths visible in the air, our spirits undeterred. Our early morning venture led us t
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 fallin
Rockaway Metals Products (RMP) began as a sheet metal fabrication factory beginning in 1961. RMP occupied the site from 1971 to 1987 leaving a plethora of hazardous waste materials onsite. From 1990 to 2004 the building housed various tenants which even included an auto repair shop. Rockaway Metals a manufacturer of filing cabinets and other metal products closed down in 1987. It was leased a few years ago to different owners who did not manage the 4.85-acre parcel. The 155,000-square-foot building has long been an eyesore and trouble in the neighborhood since its closure. A coastal storm in March 2018 blew debris materials to adjacent properties. Rockaway Metals was acquired by Nassau County in 1995 by tax deed. The county has held onto the property for 22-plus years. In February 2011, the site was damaged by fire and condemned soon thereafter. For more in-depth legal ownership of the property, you can read more below in the source list under U.S. v. 175 INWOOD ASSOCIATES LLP.
For weeks, I had been orbiting the perimeter of the impending demolition of the Church of St. Michael and St. Edward, a once revered church in the heart of Fort Greene, like a moth drawn to a flame. The neighborhood, a patchwork of tight project housing, seemed indifferent to the fate of this historic edifice. The intel I had received suggested that entry was as simple as scaling a wooden fence, yet the timing had never felt right. Until one day, it did. With a mission in New Jersey looming, I knew it was now or never. The demolition was advancing at a startling pace, the church's twin steeples already reduced to rubble. The skeletal remains of timber beams and rusted steel frames peeked out from the ruins, a testament to the relentless march of progress. Summoning a surge of courage, I seized a moment of quiet in the bustling housing project and vaulted over the fence. My heart pounded in my chest as I slipped unnoticed into the church grounds. The once grand entrance now stood as
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