4. The Blaze
Do you know where Sleepy Hollow is?
Having a spontaneous nature is considered a good thing and I often consider if it’s an innate characteristic or something that can be developed through practice. That’s kind of the question of human existence, really—can we become something we don’t think we already are? While in general I believe the answer is yes, I have not ever been able to become very spontaneous despite almost 40 years of trying. Yes, sometimes I’ll do unexpected things, or opportunities will pop up out of nowhere that I’ll take. Bumping into a friend and getting a coffee, for example.
But anything that requires more than a subway ride is usually something I’ve given a lot of thought to. I tell myself I’m doing It over and over again. I tell a few other people, as external motivation, even though they don’t give a shit. I create a blog dedicated to the activity so it’s more embarrassing if I back out even though people care even less about blogs. Willing things into existence through repetition works for me, but it is not a practice that mixes well with spontaneous adventures, which you can’t have been previously thinking about by their very definition.
On my way to The Blaze, my Metro North train was held on the track for over an hour just short of pulling into Ossining. Most of that hour I spent berating myself for attempting to go on a spontaneous trip to upstate New York to look at pumpkins. We were quite close to the final stop at Croton-Harmon, but there were no longer any regular announcements being made over the loudspeaker and the Metro North Twitter account was being very vague about how long this pause would last. I got up to look around, not sure what else to do.
I’d caught the train from Grand Central, which is one of the most visually romantic places in New York when it comes to travel. It has high ceilings, stone carvings, wooden details, and high, arched entrances. That’s a terrible description, actually; it feels like stepping into a black-and-white photo where steam is blowing up through a grate and you pull your trench coat closer around you, yet move bravely onward. The main concourse contracts into a center of bustling energy before expelling people out in every direction with its force. Walking purposefully through and approaching a real ticket teller instead of a machine turns you into a character in a movie about a more interesting version of yourself. From this electric beginning, things had quickly declined. The train itself was busy to start, but by the time we came to a shuddering halt, it was almost entirely empty. As I walked around, peering into the connected cars, I saw no one. There was a single man seated a few rows ahead of me and we could have been the only two people aboard. He didn’t seem threatening, but it was like the beginning of a bad dream when you’re uneasy and not yet sure why. It had gotten colder and colder and I shivered with anxiety.
To calm down about the train’s interior, I pressed my face against the window, looking out into the blackness. We were nowhere near a town, there were no streets or buildings in view. I could barely see anything at all. I cupped my hands around my eyes, trying to focus harder into the nothingness. All of the sudden, my pupils loosened and the world came into focus. Along the edge of the track stood a row of stones standing as a bulwark against the lapping water, which spread out into an even darker plain than the night sky before connecting with a distant range of hills. We were so close to it, if the train tipped to the side, it would slide into the current like a seal off an ice flow.
Until I headed to Grand Central, I hadn’t been entirely sure I would go to The Blaze. It was a spontaneous decision. I didn’t buy a ticket for the event—which cost an insane $52—until the last second either. A friend had told me about it, then suggested I come along in a way that made it seem like they didn’t think I actually would. I do love Halloween. All fall and winter holidays are the best, because they are so nakedly about human fear. The world grows cold! We can’t stand the darkness! Will there every be life and crops again?! I know, let’s light a bunch of stuff up and sing songs and have a bonfire. In a battle of coziness versus dread, cozy always wins.
Upstate New York tourism is also very dependent on everyone’s seasonal impulse to look at leaves and Google “where is Sleepy Hollow” every year. Tragically, I have developed an oral allergy to fresh apples, so The Blaze did seem like a wonderful alternative to traditional fall shenanigans. Set up around Westchester’s Van Cortlandt Manor, the event offers handcarved jack-o-lanterns set up in increasingly stunning displays, including a recreation of the Mona Lisa, a giant sea monster, a New York City taxi cab, and even a Jeff Koons sculpture. The work on display is so astounding it’s hard to believe they’re made entirely from pumpkins. That’s because they’re not, a fact I didn’t find out until after I left. I guess I’m gullible. It sure makes a lot more logistical sense that some portion of the pumpkin displays are actually made from plastic shaped like pumpkins, which are then shaped like other things. This obviously still requires planning, talent, and imagination to put together, but it does seem like a violation of the spirit of pumpkin carving. Why even use pumpkins if they’re not really pumpkins? Why not make a fake Jeff Koons sculpture out of plastic coconuts, for example? Or just a replica of the sculpture itself? Jeff Koons might sue, but it’s basically the same thing. Perhaps if I’d known this ahead of time, I would have swung the other direction and spent the evening on my warm couch, but I didn’t. Honestly, this blog and trying to do new things encouraged me into this situation, so once again spontaneity has lost out against public accountability.
But I didn’t know, and I headed out just as the sun sent its last licks of golden fire along the clouds before drooping into sleepy twilight. I thought the train I eventually chose would give me a luxurious 45 minutes to walk the half mile from the station to this surreal fakery, but no. We did eventually move again, shortly after I’d given up all hope. For 11 Venmoed dollars, a taxi driver with no seatbelts in his car took me on the four minute ride from the station to a strip mall that parallels the manor. I sprinted through The Blaze’s parking lot. The friends I was meeting had already gone through at their leisure. As I entered, they texted me that they were heading back to catch the train. Of course, they had to; it was now after 10 pm and if they didn’t catch the next train, they wouldn’t be able to leave until after midnight.
Having made the spontaneous decision to go, I didn’t want to turn around once I’d already entered the gates. While people slowly inched through the maze, oo-ing and aah-ing, I pushed past, taking the type of blurry, chaotic pictures you might while on a bender, hoping I’d be able to look back at them some day and feel a connection to the experience. The air was cool and damp with squash rot. Somehow, I was going to enjoy the fucking Blaze while still catching the next train back to Manhattan.
One friend waited behind for me, patient and assured we’d catch up to the rest. I rushed on towards him, lying to the slowpokes, “Excuse me! I’m about to miss my ride!” so they’d get out of my way.
We met in the pumpkin graveyard and it felt almost worth it. Not the money, that could never be justified. But the effort. On our way out, we passed under a ceiling of bats carved into pumpkins, real ones, and it was beautiful. With long strides, we caught up to the rest of the group not far from the exit. When one expressed some sympathy for my disastrous non-planned night, I said, “Sometimes adventures are bad.”
There’s not much harm in being disappointed or trying something and having it kind of suck or spontaneously heading upstate only to do a four minute mile through a pumpkin patch. We caught the train, concluding my 50 minutes in Croton-Harmon. I was not alone on the way home and was in bed by one am.
Instead of going to The Blaze, enjoy this trailer.
Here are a number of essays on whether or not Jeff Koons is a bad artist or a great artist everyone loves to hate.
I’ve been watching loads of Pumpkin Carving videos.
These guys get paid to do it as “masters” and apparently have great SEO because they pop up immediately when you search pumpkin carving artists.
However, nothing tops carving your own crappy pumpkin, or any other meaty vegetable. Here’s a bit of a story you’ve probably heard about the Samhain origin of the practice:
[Carving pumpkins] comes from an Irish myth about Stingy Jack, who tricked the Devil for his own monetary gain. When Jack died, God didn’t allow him into heaven, and the Devil didn’t let him into hell, so Jack was sentenced to roam the earth for eternity. In Ireland, people started to carve demonic faces out of turnips to frighten away Jack’s wandering soul.
Hit the road, Jack.