The sectors of a city . . . are decipherable, but the personal meaning they have for us is incommunicable, as is the secrecy of private life in general, regarding which we possess nothing but pitiful documents.—Guy Debord

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The service road beside
Newtown Creek, past the forking railroad tracks spanning Dutch Kills, looked ripe for exploration. The satellite photo was ambiguous, though; it looked like the only way onto the tracks was through a large truck depot, but was it accessible? Would the gatekeepers of industry bar my way?

Up from the subway

Onto the footbridge
Highway cash crop
Billboard harvest





Target acquired. Trespassing? I don’t know, but it felt like it.





On the rickety wooden footbridge between the forking railroad tracks. . . the rumbling and clanking of the scrap yards on the creek within earshot . . . I am ecstatic beneath the satellite photos that guided me here.






On Railroad Avenue I heard something rustling behind me and I turned quickly, thinking it a rat. It was a puppy from the scrap yard, a dusty little mutt, sweet as can be, rabidly frisky, nipping at my fingers—pure motion.


We had a moment together . . . Goodbye sweet little dusty scrap yard puppy.
We love this series and the little puppy. We've walked those tracks too!
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