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Correspondence

The Ghosts of Gettysburg

FEB 4, 2007: For imme­di­ate release:::::

When we were given these pho­tos recently snapped by the O’Brien Sis­ters (our irreal estate agents), we emu’d them to our anom­alies expert, Michael Zempter, the Last of the Appalachian Beat Poets, for psy­cho­met­ric response. We also got the Nihil Obstat from our mil­it­ary pho­to­meter ana­lyst as we con­tinue to explore Amer­ican Cul­ture from our Ark for Zoo & Logical Times. From these hal­lowed bat­tle­fields we travel to Boston to con­sult with Toe Knee Eye Nose before our return to the Old World. Bread­crumbs in Roanoake. Joyce Bar in Philadelphia.

Isso Liwok
For­eign Cor­res­pond­ent
Zoo & Logical Times

“The strong leaves of the box-elder tree,
Plunging in the wind, call us to dis­ap­pear
Into the wilds of the uni­verse,
Where we shall sit at the foot of a plant,
And live forever, like the dust.”

–Robert Bly

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“The ghost rider was taken near The Wheat Field, the big orb was near Spangler’s Spring, and I think the other tree with orb in the middle was taken near The Tri­an­gu­lar Field. These are three of the sites that had the most hor­rific slaughters.

The town of Gettys­burg at that time had a pop­u­la­tion 2500. 150.000 sol­diers des­cen­ded on the town and in three days, 53,000 had died. The townspeople had to deal with the rot­ting bod­ies and all the injured for months and it was sum­mer.” –Karen O’Brien.

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“Dead at 4, she was old — as old as you get. With the world at sin­gu­lar­ity around her, she elec­ted to come here and play, once the can­non went away. I saw her that once, as I returned down from Little Round Top on the Winter Sol­stice, 1994.

All the ghosts, frozen on the rocks and grass, and the wind so high it was obvi­ously of the spirit. I walked down to the car with the angry driver hat­ing me. It never occurred to me that she could have driven away with all my things.

I took it all in, hav­ing stud­ied the site at length, and come here to stand at the vari­ous foci, to feel what I might feel. At the base of the hill, with the wind scream­ing and large fix­tures being tumbled away toward the vil­lage, I looked back up at the Hill­top where so many say the Civil War cres­ted and broke, and there in the mael­strom was a little girl about 4. She was on a tri­cycle, ped­dling hard as the night fell, mov­ing freely into that strange wind. She was dressed in lilac and baby blue and full of pas­sion­ate intensity!

I watched until she went out of sight, no par­ent any­where; only me, and I was leav­ing. Or maybe it was her who was leav­ing. A great mys­tery was on me as I got back into the furi­ous car, and though she hated me, I told the driver about the child and we drove up there and hunted for her, able to see hun­dreds of yards in every dir­ec­tion, and there was noth­ing. Even the tri­cycle had been magical, because it was gone too.

When I see the orbs, I feel those are her. They have the right col­ors, and like her, no face.

Gettys­burg is a hal­lowed place, but for the wrong reason, I think.

–Mike the Hauntee.”

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