Month: August 2014

What is it? (American Cyanamid Edition)

What is this place? An old farm in West Windsor, New Jersey? A prime site for retail or mixed-use development? A not-so-prime site for development? An albatross around the neck of one of the most affluent towns in the state? An environmental juggernaut: too big of a problem to be addressed by the business sector, too small of a problem for the feds to care? Is it a perfect example of the American agrochemical industry in the 20th century? A site with great gothic attraction?

All of the above, of course.

And in the most basic terms, it is a 650-acre parcel of land in West Windsor, at the junction of Rt 1 and Quakerbridge Rd. It was used for much of the last century as a research campus for the American Cyanamid company, where crop treatments and livestock medications were developed and tested. As such, it housed an impressive number of attractions for fans of gothic abandonments:

  • A state-of-the-art “swine enclosure”
  • A site for detonation of volatile chemicals
  • two landfills, one rather more toxic than the other
  • A multi-million dollar greenhouse complex built in the 90s, just a few years before the site was abandoned

And that’s just scratching the surface. For the past few years I’ve been desultorily researching the site, and it’s my hope and plan to share some of what I’ve gleaned here.

When I Start Paying Attention

If it’s happening between a man and a woman, I’m paying attention. For that matter, if it’s happening between two men or two women and there’s a spark there, I’m also paying attention. Watching “Knick” with the husband, I’m giving half an ear to the proceedings, the gory early medical procedures, the male posturing over status in the hospital. Then Clive Owen has a scene with a young nurse, and my eyes dart to the screen, my ears pricking up. Now this is what I’m interested in. What’s going on between them? He’s paternalistic and a little suggestive, bringing his status to bear in pressuring her to be silent about his opium addiction. But is he actively trying to seduce her? If so, does he feel desire for her, or is this just part of his method of influence? And her—how does she feel here? She’s showing deference, but does she feel attraction? Does she really feel the respect she’s showing, or is she disgusted and afraid? Is she really that good at hiding her feelings, or is she really naive enough to believe his line?

This is the stuff I’ll always care about in a story: a sexually or emotionally charged connection being played out while we watch. This is the kind of interaction that will always draw me in.

Defy Not the Retrograde Sexual Politics

80's cover of Joanna Lindsey's "Defy Not the Heart."
This was the cover art on my edition of “Defy Not the Heart.” I can’t believe my parents let me buy it!

How well I remember my days of reading “bodice-ripper” romance novels. Even though that’s a term that’s been deprecated in most circles, that’s how I remember those books and it’s still how I think of them.

Now here’s a riddle: how come so many feminists grew up on a steady diet of rapey romance novels, yet still come out on the other side with progressive views of sexuality? And even though we’d never write a book like Joanna Lindsey’s “Defy Not the Heart” (even if we could), or even recommend it to someone very impressionable, we look back on them with affection.
I guess it’s like the American trope of the racist grandma everyone’s got hidden away. You don’t agree with her politics, but you love her just the same. But I wonder if that comparison even works? We love our racist grandmas despite their racism, but we love “Defy Not the Heart” because of its retrograde sexual politics (at least in part). Maybe it’s because young people are so interested in erotic stories that we’ll take what we can get and ignore the parts that don’t work for us. That’s the way we’re built to develop, right? Take the good and leave the rest–that’s how well-adjusted kids are supposed to approach everything they’re presented with. That requires such a strong sense of what’s “good” and what isn’t, though. Where does that initial sense come from?

Enticement to Wander

This sign may as well have said, “Welcome to a Very Interesting Place: come on in! [Katie, this means you.]” It was posted at the old campus of the American Cyanamid Company in West Windsor in ’11-’12, and it enticed me to do a little exploring there. It turns out that the company and the campus have long and colorful histories. More soon on all there is to know, from the swine enclosure to the radioactive landfill.

EPA notice at American Cyanamid
EPA sign posted at the old agricultural campus of the American Cyanamid Company, West Windsor, NJ.

Namesake

From the seminal work on the erotics of reading:

“It is the very rhythm of what is read and what is not read that creates the pleasure of the great narratives: has anyone ever read Proust, Balzac, War and Peace, word for word? (Proust’s good fortune: from one reading to the next, we never skip the same passages.)…What I enjoy in a narrative is not directly its content or even its structure, but rather the abrasions I impose upon the fine surface: I read on, I skip, I look up, I dip in again.”

-Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of the Text

The Sewing Dungeon

Here’s something about the new house: it might have a sewing room. If by “sewing room” you mean “basement chamber with a water problem, concrete floor, and cinder block walls.” But a room is a room, you know. And I’ve long felt that the only way I’ll ever, ever begin to use my sewing machine on a regular basis is if it stays open on a dedicated table. And here’s my opportunity. There’s even room in here to make a space for messy work, or maybe even bulky projects like, oh, finishing the inside of my childhood dollhouse!

Which brings up what this basement room of mine reminds me of: my grandfather. Chasie built my dollhouse (along with several other dollhouses, model ships, etc.) in his own basement workshop in Bronxville, NY. He used to take his grandkids down there to build dollhouse furniture or other little things. His specialty was cutting a circle of thin wood in half, then gluing the halves at 90 degrees to made a demi-lune table. He also made a very clever little display stand for the miniature costumed mice I collected like crazy in about 1983.

The last time I was ever down in Chasie’s workshop, it was maybe 15 years after his death, and right before my grandmother moved into nursing care. Most of his things had been cleared away, but amazingly enough, on the metal shelf that still had a few nails and screws on it was a jam jar filled with his cigarette butts. Man, I wish I’d taken that with me, as nutty as it would have seemed. It would have pride of place in my little den.

Moving Sucks

The new house is wonderful, great, better than we thought we’d ever get in Princeton. So nice, in fact, that I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. But that move, man, God it sucked. I’ve known this about myself forever, but I really hate change. And it was such a piecemeal process, riddled with SNAFUs and bad temper. But we’re in now, and it sure is a more pleasant place to be than the last place.

In other news, I’ll be making more attempts to weave together all the disparate elements of my life and brain. The weaving metaphor sure works well for me, so maybe I’ll start having some luck with making all the strands feel like a piece of fabric instead of a tangle.