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*insert witty quote here* | |
IMG_2525 by KMD1720, on Flickr
https://www.flickr...tos/131085384@N06/ | |
I hope you listened to the door.
RIP Blackhawk | |
Posted by randomesquephoto I hope you listened to the door.
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I did, but only due to time constraints. I will be back to see the interior.
https://www.flickr...tos/131085384@N06/ | |
J->
www.sacramentalperception.com : www.jonathancastellino.com | |
Ooh. Very nice.
RIP Blackhawk | |
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Loose squares of sheet metal violently slap against the hollow industrial carcass of a structure, the reverberations begin to shake free decades worth of fine silt accumulated atop a row of swinging spot lights dancing to the sway of the wind. The dust effortlessly glides to the ground, catching and reflecting random rays of light like a plume of glitter, before settling across the lens of my camera. A steady February wind whips relentlessly through the dead factory, winding up rusted out ventilation fans into a spinning cacophony of screeching and squealing howls, as the corroded blades scape again their bent and busted metal enclosures. It's as if the factory is alive again with sound, yet the giant machines as dead as a heap of roadkill piled up along the gutter of a highway. Outside, a trio of crumbling smoke stacks appear to scrape the speeding clouds obscuring the light blue sky behind. The cylindrical brick chimneys are just begging to be toppled from their ever-standing misery, like a line of dominos set to fall with spectacular show. The wind is so fierce it speaks with ghastly echos, as gusts pass over the open tops of the stacks, echoing like a child blowing his breath over the narrow neck of a soda bottle. I watch as a fiberglass sheet of siding is ripped loose from a conveyor belt chute, exposing the nude iron skeleton behind. The siding tumbles awkwardly through the air like a discarded newspaper before crashing into the ground and exploding into million tiny fragments. This is the tune of the Post-Industrial Blues, a song familiar to many rust belt towns and cities stricken by decay and mass exodus. Stagnant factories create a silhouette across the horizon, forming a skyline of forsaken chimneys and corroded infrastructure, standing dead and lifeless like the charred trunks of trees after a massive forest fire. Rust stains bleed down the facades of old mills, and weather-beaten warehouses embody an aura of emptiness. Sidewalks out front once bustling with workers are now heaved and cracked, littered with shards of broken glass punched from the many thousands of little square windows lining the fronts of the forgotten buildings. Some places never seem to recover from the Post-Industrial Blues, but amongst the tune of misery beauty can always be found.
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Second pic is from the first outing with the D610 I bought... right in the middle of March, when covid ensured I couldn't go anywhere to use it.
[last edit 5/17/2020 9:33 AM by DescentOnARope - edited 1 times]
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Whoa! You don't see anything quite like that in Texas. Not in any of the drains I've seen anyway.
Edit: Are those stalagmites or is that ice?
[last edit 5/19/2020 12:16 PM by Dee Ashley - edited 1 times]
I wandered till the stars went dim. | |
Posted by Dee Ashley
Whoa! You don't see anything quite like that in Texas. Not in any of the drains I've seen anyway.
Edit: Are those stalagmites or is that ice?
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Those are ice stalagmites.
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Ketamine?
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Posted by Vacant NJ
Those are ice stalagmites.
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Cool! I didn’t know such a thing even existed. Where I live, they probably don’t.
I wandered till the stars went dim. | |
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A invisible yet pungent cloud of cigarette smoke lingers within the cool, predawn air, the scent of which seems to calm my nerves as much as it is my partner's. Glowing orange embers carelessly coast to the ground, quickly extinguish by the morning dew, which has saturated my shoes and dampened my socks as I hastily push through the darkened forest, racing against the sun which will soon spoil our cover. Mister Pat takes one final drag before flicking the butt into the swollen stream just ahead of us, discernible only by the sound of the water flowing through a narrow channel of slippery rocks. As I look toward the horizon through the dense trees and brush, I can see that the sun is beginning the stain the sky red; time is of the essence for we are not out of the woods yet. A large fallen tree provides the path of least resistance across the murmuring brook, yet its moss covered bark makes for a precarious and slow-going balancing act, costing us precious time. One after the other we carefully cross the fallen timber and shove our way past a final perimeter of thorns and brambles before reaching the perimeter road. Just ahead of us, the massive imposing edifice of Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital's Kirkbride building looms like a gothic monster, luring us like prey, closer into its grasp. But before we can disappear into the shadows and safety of the asylum, me must dart across the heavily patrolled perimeter road and scurry like jackasses through an open field of freshly mowed grass, undetected. My heart is beating relentlessly, I'm so high off adrenaline that this all seems like a great idea. And indeed it its. I don't recognize it yet, but this will undoubtedly be the greatest adventure I ever embark upon. I'm 19 years old at the time, but still nothing has come close to the excitement and fascination I felt tear through my soul that morning. I've been chasing that morning's high for over a decade now, but like a loser drug addict, nothing will ever compare. I only have the pictures which haunt me with memories of the greatest day of my life, for my mind is forever scarred with the vivid mental imagery of that morning begging for that same rush of dopamine that can never be obtained again. Yet still I try, and every adventure is worth it. Together we kneel at the edge of the thorns, tense as twigs, listening, waiting for the perfect moment. But this is a game of chance, a gamble with a stunning reward, the very thought of which boils over a charge of anticipation through my veins so hot that it is just too much to handle. And like a rabbit fleeing a fox, we jet out running from the safety of the forest, sprinting for our lives toward the asylum, as the god damn sun begins to brighten the sky with horrifying details. We have no idea if we've been spotted as we continue to run, running so fast I swear I can taste fucking blood in my mouth. The walls of the asylum grow closer, I can make out the individual stones within the hundred year old facade. I can see the caged windows with detail and smell the mildew within the chilled air bellowing out from behind the broken panes, teasing us that an entrance is near. In a blink of confusion and planned precision, we slip down an ancient stairwell covered with cobwebs and constructed with wood older than the forest we had just emerged from moments earlier. I regain my breath for a moment, just quick enough to keep from passing out. Mister Pat clicks on his flashlight which illuminates, like beacon from heaven, a heavily corroded metal door with the faded letters G.P.P.H. stenciled across the top. The air vent near the bottom of the door is missing, creating an opening just large enough for us to slither through into the safety of the asylum. A primitive glass lightbulb dangles from an exposed wire, the filament pulsating with orange light, as a plume of cigarette smoke begins to fog my view. "We made it fucker and I told you the power would be on!", Mister Pat yells to me as I turn back to witness a single glowing ember coast to the ground, quickly extinguished within a steam tunnel puddle. "Lets hit the roof dick-wad, we might still make it up in time to catch the sunrise", Mister Pat exclaims.
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Some from my recent outing. A mix of phone and actual camera shots.
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