Gone Fishin'

For the 7 of you who are still reading this blog, you may have noticed, that i am on hiatus. I'm getting married in less than two weeks, plus Polish girl and i have just closed on a house. So i am very busy, with a little bit of busy added on top of that.

This blog is on hold for now and hopefully one day... five, six years from now, I'll get it back up and running again. My mind is still humming and i still have blog entries dancing around my head. Unfortunately, i do not have the time to sit down and write them out in neat blog prose.

till we meet again,
Historelli

Working with a Master

This past weekend, Nik Social and I (with several others) aided in the eventual release of a gargoyle. We were guided by master carver Franco Minervini, who showed us how to work limestone on a model of a humanoid griffin. The actual gargoyle sits atop the National Cathedral in Washington, where Master Minervini worked during the late 1980s.

Stone carving is the reverse of molding because instead of putting material together to create a figure, you must take bits and pieces away to free a form. Besides the difference in technique, working stone is much more profound and permanent compared to clay or even paint. Not only in the sense that the finished piece will most likely outlast the artist by centuries, but also for the reason that the actual activity of shaping stone is primeval and ancient. Even a beginner (with any sense of geology) can understand the connection. Stone is eternal; working it forces you to contemplate millennia. Furthermore, stone is rough and until coaxed properly, unyielding. A novice will swell his hands, scrape his knuckles and breathe in dust before continuing. And yet, the finished product can be as refined and polished as the finest impressionist painting.

I wasn’t sure what I would find before taking this stone carving workshop, I did know that I wanted to better comprehend the craft and how it relates to my own roots. Master Minervini stems from the city of Molfetta, where my parents were also born and were 95% of my known ancestors come from. Minervini’s teacher at the National Cathedral was the late great carver, Vincent Palumbo, a fifth generation master whose family also ran shops in Molfetta. Anyone whose been to Molfetta or even seen a picture of the place would not be surprised by the genesis of stone carvers the city initiates. Comprised of sun-scorched limestone buildings, Molfetta shines with a brightness that beautifully contrasts with the deep blue Adriatic and the surrounding olive groves. Years ago, its inhabitants fished the sea, farmed the land or worked the stone. All of my ancestors survived via these trades, and I believe it is essential to experience these fundamentals in order to be healthy and fulfilled, especially in today’s world of text messaging and reality shows.

A little bit of that old-world essence was at hand this past weekend. Working with master Minervini caused limestone dust to fill the air, which then combined with a distant aroma of cooking. I thought to myself, this smells familiar. Shortly after, Nik turned to me quizzically, and said: “It’s weird, but right now it almost smells like Molfetta.”

Nobody Puts Cosmo in the Corner...

There was this cigar bar lounge called “Retailers,” where I spent entirely way too much time in during my early to mid-twenties. My crew knew all the names of the more sizzling waitresses and they reciprocated our suave by giving us lots of free drinks and more importantly allowing us to stay later than the supposed 4 am closing hour. Several evenings ended with navigations through morning rush hour after episodes of drinking through snifters and swivels.

One particular night, my floral friend Cosmo pulled me away from the blond waitress I was working on and asked me if this “guy” he was talking to… "was really him.” Curious, I walked over to the bar, pressed my face into his visage, and came to the conclusion that I was indeed staring at dancer extraordinaire: Patrick Swayze. I turned to Cosmo and replied. “Yeah, that’s him.” Cosmo responded by purchasing shots of the most expensive of tequilas.

Now, Johnny Castle was already half-zooted. Apparently, an altercation with his wife had caused him to go on a bender and by the time he got to us, he had already assembled an entourage of young girls, Asian men and one very insecure Italian restaurateur who acted like he was the actor’s keeper.

Cosmo continuously poured drinks for his new celebrity friend, even forcing Swayze to call his mother up in Jersey and tell her that her son was really a good guy. Since it was on the wrong side of 4 am, I don’t think mama Cosmo appreciated the gesture. The rest of the night is sort of blurry to me. As I sat in a corner table with my lady friend, Cosmo assaulted the Italian guy, imploring him to “go home.” Then, he took some curtains down and wore them as a cape. Mr. Chiapas, who was still wet behind the ears at the time, over-appreciated Mr. Swayze with several bear hugs and even put his scarf around the actor’s neck and pulled it back and forth, kinda like a burlesque dancer would do….

Now, I do not encourage swooning over celebrities, especially ones that were part of the epic drama “Roadhouse.” However, if you ever have the chance to sit back and relax while your friends chase down and manhandle a famous actor, I strongly suggest you appreciate the situation. Unfortunately, Mr. Swayze may not be long for this world, so I would like to thank him now for a very funny night.

Yellow Eyes

I love birds. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe because when I was growing up the faraway places I saw on National Geographic were too out of reach, so I settled for more suburban game. When you’re a kid interested in lions, tigers and monkey-eating eagles, it’s not easy to do field research. Luckily, I grew up with a big back yard, with lots bugs and birds. Not the same as the ones shown on TV, but good enough. I spent a lot of time out there learning the names of those bugs & birds and even began to understand what eats what and all the other laws of nature afforded to a kid during summertime.

The bird thing has never gone away. Just like baked ziti, pin-striped uniforms and green-eyed girls, I’ve never lost my affinity for flying creatures. Whenever I need to reclaim clarity, I take a brief birding tour and put things back into perspective. It doesn’t hurt that most birds are out of human range. When babbling brooks and warbling warblers replace cell phones and honking horns, it’s easier to reach a Zen like state.

Bird watching is somewhat about lists. Birders will go out of their way to seek out rare species or seasonal birds that only appear once a year during migration. I too am guilty of this practice. Last week, a Eurasian subspecies of teal was spotted in the Meadowlands and I wandered toward the sighting with the hopes of checking it off on my life list. The Eurasian Teal differs only slightly from our own Green-winged teal, but since it is a variation of the “regular” native teal, crazed birders need to go see it and check it off their lists.

However, I know that the list thing is superficial and it was another bird that helped me realize this. After checking the Eurasian teal off my list,” (btw, a teal is a type of duck) I turned up the path and flushed a pair of decent sized long-eared owls.

Now, there are a few things you should experience before the worms eat you. One of those things is to stand face to face with a wild owl. After withstanding the bright yellow-eyed glare of this creature, I fully understand why owls are patrons of Halloween and also the symbol for wisdom. If you move, an owl will follow you with its gaze and if you blink, it is so quiet you won’t even know it flew away. I literally froze in my tracks. Needless to say, the owl won the stare down and I went home to ponder my thoughts, not really worried about much.

Searching for Halloween

Let us recap. According to the previous three-part epic, atmosphere dictates mood and as a result, any scary environment can create monsters. Moreover, (if you remember a similar HSC post from October), there is a difference between real fear and the nonsense type of panic that the television feeds us everyday.

Therefore, if certain places are haunted, (that is…if the actual essence of certain air is uniquely and unremittingly putrid, something disgusting will eventually show up) and within these authentically scary places lurk true monsters, those who acknowledge this formula should surely experience the core spirit of the holiday. But even if this is true, is it wise to do so?

During Halloween, we explore spooky scenes and give candy to dirty little children who show up to our door begging all in the merriment of the unknown, which in its different forms can scare anyone. Not the type of “scared” that puts butterflies in your stomach before the start of new job or the trepidation that chills the bones upon the realization that a child-molester like Curt Schilling will win another World Series. This type of fear is more ancient. Perhaps it is a primeval peculiarity we claim to want relief from, but in reality just want a chance to tap into its source of ogreish orgasm. We have all felt it but only a few of us have the penchant ability to turnkey it into something tangible. I am curious about those who can truly translate Halloween.

A few weeks back, Polish Girl and I paid homage to the home and grave of Washington Irving, America’s first celebrity writer and creator of such characters like the Headless Horseman and Rip Van Winkle. Originally from Manhattan, Irving spent some of his childhood in the Tarrytown/Sleepy Hallow sections of Westchester County and the atmosphere of the place stuck with him for the rest of his life. In fact, when Irving wrote the Legend of Sleepy Hollow he was actually living in Spain but the reminder of his days in New York resonated so soundly within his memory, he was able to cite specific locations and characters with little difficulty. When visiting his home today (now an historic landmark known as Sunnyside) it is impossible not to get a taste of this specter. It doesn’t hurt that pumpkins and headless horsemen adorn the entire town, a smart form of marketing by local residents trying to cash in on their most famous son. Of course, the people of Tarrytown did not invent the ghosts Irving wrote about, since the original Dutch settlers only recognized what the Indians they encountered knew for centuries; something is not quite right about that area near Sleepy Hollow. Maybe it took a different mind (like Irving’s) to dissect what others realized but never had the ability to highlight. On the other hand, maybe those before Irving were just too frightened to do so.

Interestingly, the frequency of ghosts is not something solely attributable to Sleepy Hollow or even New Orleans, a place I recently visited that seems securely penetrated by the allure of goblins. The truth is that we are all surrounded by the unfamiliar and nameless, but either we are unable or just reluctant to obverse it.

For example, my loyal readers like F. White, the Chiapas crew, Nik Social, Frank A. and Mr. & Mrs. Moe Green all live in a very very haunted town. Evil has been enveloping its residents for decades. In 1870, their home, then known as Union Township was home to a sweet German woman until a bout of hallucinations caused her to attempt suicide and eventually land her in the Insane Asylum. Nearly 50 years later, this quiet little town located in the Meadowlands again made headlines when it’s Health Inspector gunned down a former mayor. Later, the Health Inspector slit his wrists and died in the bathroom of his home on Willow Ave. I wonder if his ghost still haunts that street... The crazies from this town seem to have ventured northward, even infiltrating the territory of Sister Lucy and her family. According to reports from 1924, a man named Solaski swallowed a chain of gold then went insane after the necessary stomach surgery. After the operation, he escaped from Hackensack Hospital and then beat down a bunch of police officers from the neighboring town. They shot him seven times but he still lived. I wonder if his energy is still running wild in that area…

My other readers may feel safe at this time but they aren’t… Across the river from the aforementioned place in the meadowlands, fellow blogger Ricky may have to deal with flying ghostly body parts. In 1929, a 20-year old bootlegger watched for police while his friends made some illegal booze. Although, I’m not sure if they made any good hooch, they did succeed in blowing up their house. Authorities found the lookout guy in pieces nearly two blocks away!
Meanwhile, Gus lives practically next door to the final resting place of Jennie Bosschieter, a young pretty mill girl who was drugged, assaulted then murdered by four wealthy businessmen from Paterson. I wonder if anyone or anything still visits her grave? Hmm… who did I leave out…. AO needs to watch out for the ghosts of runaway slaves and cousin Marge should not go to Rite Aid late at night because she may encounter the phantom of 17-year old Christine Hervish. Someone smashed her jaw then murdered her near that present location almost 85 years ago.

*Note: when reading the newspaper articles, click on the image to enlarge the print

The Shorehouse - Fin

The bedroom furnishings were simple, consisting of a bed, a dresser and a nightstand. Since the fittings were dusty and old we stopped short of unpacking our cloths and accessories, opting instead to leave everything in bags atop of the furniture. Regardless of grime, it was a far better decision to remain temporary and offer no sense of permanence to this house. Perhaps, the original owner of the yellow suitcase thought this realm as a comfort, only to remain here past comfortable. That considered I resigned myself to the opinion that our bags would remain virtually unpacked and our stay a brief testament of our wits.

In the daytime, two long windows provided ample light to this room denying the most mischievous shadow even a limited existence. However, upon nightfall, every creature or passerby of the outside world cast the most ominous silhouettes upon the walls. A tree swaying gently in the late summer breeze depicted itself as a colossal hobgoblin with outstretched arms trying to reach inside the window. Visions of ghouls, hunchbacked and racing hurriedly on the street below, emanated from the outlines of teenagers escaping to the beach. Street cars, driving past with their lights ablaze caused the most fantastic carousel of illumination upon the walls. The light would first hit the far wall, stretch out against the ceiling and then finally fade upon that wretched hole in the corner where the cursed suitcase lay hidden. Jealously, I glanced at Barbara who was asleep and tranquil in all her snuggery. How could she sleep with all the surrounding madness? At this moment we risk abduction, but still she slumbers! I closed my eyes in hope for composure. Slowly, my breath became less erratic and my quickened pulse subdued. Realizing the responsibilities of the morning, I reluctantly reached over to the nightstand, fumbled through some medicines and swallowed half a hand of Acetamophin.

It was breezy out on Grandma’s balcony, but not enough that I needed a jacket. Plus it was too much fun out here to worry about being cold. Peering down onto the noisy street filled with tiny European cars was great entertainment, especially since I was miles away from all my friends and action figures. I didn’t even notice the green shutters open but sure enough there was Great Aunt Chiara smiling at me, confounded that I was outside without something covering my shoulders. “It’s not nice to be out here this time of year, now blows the 'Sirocco,'" she said. “It’s a bad wind that comes over the ocean and from the Sahara, it could make you sick, and it’s dangerous, go inside. You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be here.”

A sharp rush of pain slammed into my head. Something crashed upon me causing such sudden discomfort that I cried out in agony, gasping for air as I sat up in bed. I reached my bandage-hand to my aching face and tried to make sense of what just happened. Someone punched me! I looked at Barbara, but she was tucked-in so securely, it would have taken her several minutes just to unwrap. She couldn’t have slapped me and then returned to sleep so swiftly. Thoroughly shaken, I felt my surely-wounded scalp and sensed for blood, but I was unconvinced if it stemmed from my head or hand. Slowly the intensity of the headache receded but still my eyes fought to accommodate the mouth-gaping stare into the darkness. At this hour, barely a car drove by to offer some light into the bedroom, and even the breeze was fugitive. In fact, the sea air was not salty and fresh but instead thick and foul, filled with sand and the fetid presence of kelpies.

The unmistakable sound of scratching nails on floorboard greeted me next. At times it came from my right side and then switched to across the room near the door. I scanned the landscape to no avail. There was nowhere to focus my attention. Then I heard the door of the storage room creak open. Luckily, the slow hum of a motorcycle was approaching the house. With any providence, the driver would direct his high beam squarely upon that miserable spot in the wall. First shadows appeared, then a flicker of a shine. The room lit dimly enough to provide the scene of a clawed hand dexterously closing the door of the suitcase chamber. I was astonished! How did that raccoon get back into the house, and how as I going to get it out of this room? If I woke Barbara up, she would freak out. I would have to sweat this one out alone. Again I waited, this time for the sounds behind the storage room. The creature scratched and jostled about, until stopping suddenly. It had noticed me. I was inching cautiously in its direction with the idea of trapping its exit with the night table. Unfortunately, this lively spirit realized my intention and now fixed its reddish gaze solidly upon my stance, causing me to freeze in terror. Not from fear of rabies or the scratching out of my eyes, but because of how my visitor chose to greet me. Instead of growling or hissing a warning, this beast of torment gurgled out a clear, discernible and human laugh.

The Shorehouse Pt. II

I am not sure how Barbara dealt with sleeping here. And alone for two nights! An antechamber provided privacy to the actual bedroom but also ensured our isolation from the rest of the house. If an entity first started in this room and worked its way downstairs, three to four shouts would be necessary before help arrived. If atrocities were first occurring elsewhere in the house, those of us in this bedroom would be the last to know.

Even though further cut-off from its sister chambers, this bedroom still shared the bizarre habit of left-behind décor. When procuring a rental apartment of such age, it is an accepted that many came before you and many others will follow. Proper maintenance however, should ensure that remnants of previous visitors are far and few between. What was unsettling about this bedroom was that several personal effects remained within eyeshot of any vulnerable sleeper using the room. Particularly of interest were the objects found in a storage cubicle carved out of the low portion of the far wall. There was only half of a lock attached to half of a door so it was easy to peer inside the dark crevice. Still, there was not enough light to view the exact insides. I tugged on the handle and after much exertion the door jarred open, scraping my hand during the violent action. The hollow was full of mostly falling debris from the infrastructure but also strewn with bits of newspaper and other detritus insulation.

The focal point was not this mess but rather a single yellow suitcase made slightly ajar by an overflow of clothing inside. Cautious to reach my bloodied hand into such a dusty hole, I warily rifled through the garments with a rolled up magazine. Beneath the final layer of flannel was a letter handwritten on both sides of loose-leaf sheet. The characters were finite and effeminate, telling the story of a Barbara and how foolish she felt about expressing her love for Douglas. Now, this was not my Barbara, but another more historic Barbara from perhaps forty years ago. This ancient Barbara read like a jealous girl that went around in scripted circles before finally realizing upon the fact that her “Doug,” had fallen for another woman. Olden Barbara lamented that the length of cold weather and time spent away from the shore convinced Douglas to stray away from her and toward an unlucky someone named “Jeane.” She wrote, “Am I a fool to hope you still love me Doug? If it was because of Jeane, can I now be less of a fool, now that she is gone? I paid her a visit last Sunday before the infection took her. I am sorry that I was not able to ask her about my foolishness before she left, but do not blame yourself or God. Neither of you are to blame.”

Satisfied that I received all that I could from this letter, I went to place it down back inside the suitcase. But before the paper fell into the bag the lid shut upon my already injured hand with such force that the sound of pinging metal resonated through the air. Wounded, I pulled my hand quickly away and slammed the door of this awkward closet shut. Right after, my Barbara arrived into the room finding me dirtied, on the floor and wincing with pain. “Stop poking around and get to bed, we have to wake up early tomorrow,” she said. “And open that window, it smells like a stuffy hospital in here.”

more soon...