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.
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.”
“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.
“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.”