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  • Jill Posener - Home
    Click on this link to go to my photo site. Find out why some call me one of the causes of societal degradation. Oh well, what can you do?


Albany Bulb

  • Albany Bulb
    These photographs are just a few I have taken over the last ten years at The Albany Bulb, also known as the Landfill, the Waterfront and just The Bulb. It is a place I feel passionate about. That much is obvious. There are many of us who believe that this piece of the much hyped Eastshore State Park should have been left untouched and unmanaged - because it is a unique example of what happens when a place naturally and organically self regulates. But the dogma of 'preservation' and 'conservation areas' 'resource protection', 'habitats' and 'liability' overrules all individual identity. They cannot leave anything untouched, un-designed. It is as if if they (the park planners) didn't make it, it has no value. Rules, guidelines, regulations, interpretive signage, fences, safety, sanctioned art - it leaves nothing to the imagination. That is what the landfill meant to us - a place of unlimited imagination.
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October 23, 2010


Howard Roberts

I am a friend of Ilene Isseks-i sent her this poem recently-It may be of interest to you.
Be well.

Anarchism fragment

In the light of history.
Those wanting are undernourished.
No jobs or care or even noticed.
Before is perpetual
Of this evening’s suppression.
Metal warped speed dance.
Dark wooly eye-sockets,
Viewing their gruesome victims,
Like kings of sensation,
Rulers with freedom amnesia.
Church whore with bloated vitals.
Bishops with bent ploughshares.
I am letting go of the blow,
And the deception,
On my own augmented earth,
To make whole the battered,
In their institutional beds,
In the cabinet of dream,
Plucked from the trauma sleep,
With the power of doomed sparks,
That never summons their dignity.

I like you am growing older.
The ocean is meekly emptying.
The rooms of memory unfurnished.
My knees and face quake.
Images are blurred shapes,
Showing their fickled moods.
Wrinkles of liberation.
But the quest continues
In the critical lanes.
The hot wire
Hissing in the basement.
The boiler of revolution
The dust of my own shadow,
Fallen from the rooftops,
Is my ambivalence
Of eroticism,
Under a conative sun,
Whose mesmeric,blood action,
At life’s lodestar barricade,
Is born from struggle.

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