Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Walled In Pond and The Ice Princess

The Ice Princess - Persephone's vibrant white ice-icicled essence sister spawned from the death of Ymir, the first frost Giant of Norse Mythology, who gave birth to man from the dredge sludge of his sweaty armpit - frosts and frigidizes Walled In Pond.  While I was walking the ice sheets covering Battered Hill around the frozen Walled In Pond, the gravel underneath car tires sounded menacingly-ominously full of terrible purpose in the distance.  In Alaska, the strongest healthiest largest wolf packs are hunted down by helicopter patrol and shown their exit from this earth by lead through the head.  The internal summer sun has been extinguished by the white death of the Ice Princess, the sacred heart of winter, and the sun is too far away to be seen in the sky bringing a refreshing calm to the blinding fever of the kiss of the yellow orb.  Everywhere ill humored folk disparage flaunt tout their ill humored ways cursing the Ice Princess and her magical doings.

And just the other day while I was walking the town of Ansonia, a small one street locale reminiscent of an outpost in the Wild West where duels between villain and sheriff are fought, I stopped into Bankos; the local music store.  I inquired about guitar lessons and made an appointment for the following week as plain and normal as day.  Several hours later as I was walking the banks of Walled In Pond I received an unexpected phone call from the Ansonia Police.  I was informed that I was never to return to Bankos again.  The officer made clear that this was a warning and nothing more but that if I returned to the shop there would be trouble.  Apparently the reason that the Ansonia Police called me was that someone, apparently employed or owning Bankos, had reported to an officer that I had "spoken some words" about the recent Arizona political shootings.  I asked the officer several questions as to who might have said these things but he had obviously not investigated anything and used the tip from a Bankos employee and nothing more.  What is ironic, creepy, and just plain wrong is that I never once mentioned nor was even close to mentioning anything concerning the Arizona shootings that day or any day.  In fact, I hadn't heard about and still don't even know what the Arizona shootings were? Did they ever happen?


Nevertheless, in Riven Haven or New Haven, a week earlier I had been walking with an acquaintance on Chapel Street and we had been talking about The Mad Bomber of Waterbury, whom detonated 22 bombs in New York (The Obese Puss Ridden Apple)  in the 40's and 50' and was caught after 16 years of a one man assault on the establishment whose only punishment was a 5 year stay in a mental hospital.  He had been featured in an article in the New Haven Advocate because a playwright had written a musical about him.  We were both uneasy about such talk as these days if a cat farts too loud on the street it is put down.  So perhaps, as this is perhaps how the world operates - Brahma-esque - this warning from the Ansonia Poo-lice (Police) was tied to this conversation on the streets of Haven and I was being traced by...the ominous gravel crunches under the tires of a vehicle with terrible purpose as helicopters fly over a wolf pack dispensing massacre and murder and the walls of Walled In Pond compact and compact and compact draining sunshine from my bones.

Black Bone Frigid be I as the Iridescent Calicutless Cat that hunts and haunts the Walled In Pond Enchanted Meadow hibernates in her winter-less warm lazy den and surreal blue light from the youthful fresh Blue Giant Stars of the Pleiades rains down from Orion's belt severe and hard as blue diamond tipped nails.

This incident of course opens a well of other memories and experience I have had with the Poo-lice.  One incident occurred in Haven while I was walking in front of Gotham.  I approached two police officers and bid them a good evening.  The next thing I know I am in handcuffs being frisked and my wallet is being ravaged for a form of ID.  Another night, being restless I decided to take a walk down into town, Ansonia, at 3 in the morning.  I was harassed by two officers there who asked 100 questions about why the bottom of my pant legs were wet when obviously the streets were wet from rain.  This resulted in being jailed for the night until things were cleared up and the police had made sure that my wet pant legs were not a threat to national security.  This of course reminds one of the Ray Bradbury story, The Pedestrian, of a peaceful older gentleman whisked away by a robotic police patrol vehicle for walking in the middle of the night in a similar manner.  No joke: books live.

What frustrates me most is that there is no enemy, no core, no nexus of this fascist madness to fight.  Where is the minotaur at the end of Daedalus' maze?  "This machine," providence, wherever whatever you are, do shine a ray of Apollonian sunlight on the scene and make an enemy target-able and evident not a hurricane cluster maelstrom.

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