The Wake

Land ownership is such a scam. Somebody takes a big plot of earth, cordons it off, and builds a giant eyesore, most likely another business campus or other breeding ground for the living dead. They feed off of the nectar of dirt covered in grass covered in concrete covered in plastic, wood, carpet, rubber, and particle board for a few years and then leave it to rot. But they don’t really leave. They set up security guards, signs, and protocols for those who dare to enter, warning them of laws set up to protect the grotesque, empty shell that they’ve left behind.

What’s the point? Shouldn’t it belong to the community whose land it’s occupying? Shouldn’t it belong to the artists, freaks, explorers, modern-day Nathaniel Wests? When the signs and symbols of antiquated industry have become as useless as a gleaming white dome on the Athens skyline, (left to rub against the claustrophobic skyscrapers and garish billboards) shouldn’t it become free territory?

It should. It can.

You may not know it, but there are places near this very campus whose usefulness has come and gone, leaving an empty shell or, if you are so inclined, a foreign landscape ripe for exploring. It’s not for the faint of heart; it requires a presence of mind, strength of will, and common sense that not everyone possesses. What I am trying to say is that if you want to go get trashed in an abandoned factory, do us all a favor and fuck off.

Besides, it’s not exactly party territory. The first thing you notice is the fetor and rot of rat feces; the slow decay of organic material housed within a giant metal prison. The movement of said animals mixes with the strange vocalizations of pigeons to create a strange, foreboding ambiance. Upon entering the structure proper, broken glass crunches underfoot and rotting tools hint at a not so distant bustle that could ostensibly re-emerge at any time.

Strange light plays off of the water that has completely filled the subterranean levels of the structure. It briefly breaks the suffocating dark that characterizes the lower levels and hints at something hidden beneath. The whole atmosphere is threatening, as if every movement could be an authority figure, dangerous creature, or something far worse. Whatever your fear, real or imagined, it could be there without your knowledge.

The menace of the lower levels, though, ultimately gives way to the wonders above. Precarious scaffolding and man-sized holes in the floor continue to threaten, but the visuals are undeniably pleasing; sprawling graffiti tags and stunningly rendered window paintings abound—and the view is simply breathtaking. From the sort of bleak veranda on top of the structure, it’s possible to see all over the city; to speculate as to where your house is or to eavesdrop on the neighbors quietly going about their business. The sense of solitude is unimaginable. It feels as if the whole world is spinning out of control while you are standing completely still. It is the most pure form of escape and solitude that you could possibly experience.

It may be hard to conceive of those two feelings, peaceful solitude and fear, coexisting in the same structure, but it’s the nature of the season. Think of it as trick or treating for adults: there is a definite risk of injury, capture, or general harm, but there’s always something enticing to be had. We just seek something slightly more elusive than the king size candy bars that the rich people hand out.

These structures may be abandoned, rotting, and instilled with an intense feeling of solitude, but don’t let that stop you. Contained within are worlds of wonder and terror unimaginable in a concrete world that stitches us so tightly into a routine, an endless loop that churns unto eternity. In a world so convinced of its endlessness, the abandoned relics of our past may just be the reminder of our own impermanence that we so desperately need. In other words, trash begets trash and I’m feeling wasted.