Seriously. Since posting on the paranoia, I have experienced some strange encounters, which have not allayed my fears. If anything, they have vindicated the age-old sensational craziness; my monomania is flourishing.
When seeking to pass from Redfield Pl. to Walnut Av. in Syracuse, a point-to-point itinerary I pursue regularly, and given the inability to soar through empyrean spaces, one must navigate through or around Thorden Park. Conventional wisdom is firmly of the opinion that perambulation through the Thorden is folly. There are many discreet historical reasons for avoiding the place, especially at night. Alice Sebold, author of The Lovely Bones was raped there. She immortalized her rape and recovery and the eventual conviction and arrest of her rapist in the memoir, Lucky. The title comes from the ever-clever Syracuse police, whoe purportedly claimed that she was lucky, because she was alive; another woman had been brutally murdered in the same spot, years earlier. In addition, a well-loved graduate student, Alec Waggoner, was tragically killed on Thornden Park Ave. in October 2008, very late at night, after colliding with an SUV on his bike. Naturally, these occurrences should induce prohibitive fear into all but the blithe cretin. Nevertheless, there appears to be something wrong with my reckoning ability: I regularly pass through Thorden, at all hours of the day and night, on foot and bike. Yes, I do.
Two days ago, I was meandering meaningfully down Greenwood Pl., less than a block from the edge of the park, when some ragtag youths in a parked jalopy implored me to come to the window of their automobile. They waved and turned up the edges of their mouths, as if to smile, not jovially, but with an unctuous urgency. I was actually running, but that minute sort of walking, as I had been just moments before swinging my apelike arms in concentric circles, and perhaps doing high knees. My new iPod Touch was grasped in my ham hand, and noise-emanating ear-buds plugged my upper orifices. First, I turned around 180 degress to glance at five individuals playing some esoteric kind of handball. They appeared to be deeply focused, and clearly not sending or receiving gestured messages. I wasn't really in the mood for a chat, and wanted to get back to running, so I politely rejected the invitation with a firm double shake of the head. They gesticulated, I shook again, and kept walking. It could have ended there. In fact, it could have ended before it even began. I mean, this sequence of events - recorded herein with as much accuracy as my musty brain can muster - did occur. That which follows is of less tangible stuff. I admit to being slightly shaken by these happenings, and as I converted my walk into a trot and then into a brisk jog, I looked back a couple of times over my shoulder to survey the site of the skirmish. Two of the four gentleman stepped out of the car. Whether or not they looked at me is still an open question. But they might have looked - nay, stared - and there might have been lambent licks of malice and intended harm in their eyeballs. Who knows. I continued to jog, my placidity marginally perturbed, and my adrenaline pumping a little higher than it usually does when I exercise. If you know the geography, you know that Greenwood intersects with Thorden Park Dr., which swoops down and into Beech St. Following Beech, one comes to Madison St., which then goes towards and eventually hits Walnut, precisely at the block I wanted to be on. There is a byway, also Thorden Park Dr., through Thorden, which comes one way the opposite direction I was traveling, from the corner of Madison and Ostrum Av. I took Thorden Park Dr. the wrong way, towards Madison and Ostrum, but as I cruised, senses honed and neurons firing red alerts, I saw (or thought I saw) the jalopy (which was green, incidentally) heading down Beech towards Madison and my destination. At this point, I did something unexpected. To avoid a second confrontation with the thugs, I abandoned the roadway altogether and sprinted through an obscure path, overhung by coniferous giants, in Thorden. This sacred glade, of rectangular shape, sits between Beech, Madison, Thorden Park Dr., and Ostrum. Upon reaching the other side, I had apparently shaken the amateurish stalkers and obviated ambush. This was the first event which reinforced my paranoia, but because it is so shaky and built on unsubstantiated conjecture and borderline irrationality, I decided to tell no one.
The next day - today, January 19, 2009 - any misconception I had ever had about the illegitimacy of my paranoid mania dissipated. Again, I was making the same voyage, from Red to Wall. This time, however, perhaps subconsciously to protect myself from footed rabble, I was flying on tires. The purple Rockhopper--my bike--carries my swiftly and surely, with nothing short of heroic devotion. I was cruising passively and happily through Thorden, admiring the naked branches and sullied snow banks, after a day of silly rain. Of course, a vestige of the prior day's perturbation remained, and I was unusually vigilant. My paranoia hovered like a man-moth but it calibrated my sense-perception. I am rather glad it was there, really. You see, I was rolling along, listening to Carlinhos Brown ("O aroma da vida"), and I was again going the wrong way on Thorden Park Dr.--like Alec, but on a straight, highly visible part of the road, and during the day--and I was about 100 yards from the terminus of the road, where it connected with Madison and Ostrum. All of a sudden, a gray or beige station wagon of unknown make and model, entered my roadway, and started coming towards me, with surprising rapidity, in clear contravention of the posted speed limit. Instead of staying to his or her side of the road (their right side), the psychopath at the wheel evinced a strange predilection for the left side of the street. I swear, the maniac, gaining in velocity all the time, was actually rubbing the curb - my curb - where I was also residing, moving forward on my purple stallion, anxiety building. The game of chicken appeared to me to be unfair, so I capitulated. Braking, I leaped off the bicycle, luckily directly behind a metal light-post, and threw up my arms in offended consternation. What nerve! What homicidal douchebaggery! Heinous fuckery most foul.
People are clearly fucking with me.
I need to be on top of a mountain where I can see everything, 'cause this paranoia is getting old. - Shannon Hoon/Blind Melon (RIP), "Walk".
When seeking to pass from Redfield Pl. to Walnut Av. in Syracuse, a point-to-point itinerary I pursue regularly, and given the inability to soar through empyrean spaces, one must navigate through or around Thorden Park. Conventional wisdom is firmly of the opinion that perambulation through the Thorden is folly. There are many discreet historical reasons for avoiding the place, especially at night. Alice Sebold, author of The Lovely Bones was raped there. She immortalized her rape and recovery and the eventual conviction and arrest of her rapist in the memoir, Lucky. The title comes from the ever-clever Syracuse police, whoe purportedly claimed that she was lucky, because she was alive; another woman had been brutally murdered in the same spot, years earlier. In addition, a well-loved graduate student, Alec Waggoner, was tragically killed on Thornden Park Ave. in October 2008, very late at night, after colliding with an SUV on his bike. Naturally, these occurrences should induce prohibitive fear into all but the blithe cretin. Nevertheless, there appears to be something wrong with my reckoning ability: I regularly pass through Thorden, at all hours of the day and night, on foot and bike. Yes, I do.
Two days ago, I was meandering meaningfully down Greenwood Pl., less than a block from the edge of the park, when some ragtag youths in a parked jalopy implored me to come to the window of their automobile. They waved and turned up the edges of their mouths, as if to smile, not jovially, but with an unctuous urgency. I was actually running, but that minute sort of walking, as I had been just moments before swinging my apelike arms in concentric circles, and perhaps doing high knees. My new iPod Touch was grasped in my ham hand, and noise-emanating ear-buds plugged my upper orifices. First, I turned around 180 degress to glance at five individuals playing some esoteric kind of handball. They appeared to be deeply focused, and clearly not sending or receiving gestured messages. I wasn't really in the mood for a chat, and wanted to get back to running, so I politely rejected the invitation with a firm double shake of the head. They gesticulated, I shook again, and kept walking. It could have ended there. In fact, it could have ended before it even began. I mean, this sequence of events - recorded herein with as much accuracy as my musty brain can muster - did occur. That which follows is of less tangible stuff. I admit to being slightly shaken by these happenings, and as I converted my walk into a trot and then into a brisk jog, I looked back a couple of times over my shoulder to survey the site of the skirmish. Two of the four gentleman stepped out of the car. Whether or not they looked at me is still an open question. But they might have looked - nay, stared - and there might have been lambent licks of malice and intended harm in their eyeballs. Who knows. I continued to jog, my placidity marginally perturbed, and my adrenaline pumping a little higher than it usually does when I exercise. If you know the geography, you know that Greenwood intersects with Thorden Park Dr., which swoops down and into Beech St. Following Beech, one comes to Madison St., which then goes towards and eventually hits Walnut, precisely at the block I wanted to be on. There is a byway, also Thorden Park Dr., through Thorden, which comes one way the opposite direction I was traveling, from the corner of Madison and Ostrum Av. I took Thorden Park Dr. the wrong way, towards Madison and Ostrum, but as I cruised, senses honed and neurons firing red alerts, I saw (or thought I saw) the jalopy (which was green, incidentally) heading down Beech towards Madison and my destination. At this point, I did something unexpected. To avoid a second confrontation with the thugs, I abandoned the roadway altogether and sprinted through an obscure path, overhung by coniferous giants, in Thorden. This sacred glade, of rectangular shape, sits between Beech, Madison, Thorden Park Dr., and Ostrum. Upon reaching the other side, I had apparently shaken the amateurish stalkers and obviated ambush. This was the first event which reinforced my paranoia, but because it is so shaky and built on unsubstantiated conjecture and borderline irrationality, I decided to tell no one.
The next day - today, January 19, 2009 - any misconception I had ever had about the illegitimacy of my paranoid mania dissipated. Again, I was making the same voyage, from Red to Wall. This time, however, perhaps subconsciously to protect myself from footed rabble, I was flying on tires. The purple Rockhopper--my bike--carries my swiftly and surely, with nothing short of heroic devotion. I was cruising passively and happily through Thorden, admiring the naked branches and sullied snow banks, after a day of silly rain. Of course, a vestige of the prior day's perturbation remained, and I was unusually vigilant. My paranoia hovered like a man-moth but it calibrated my sense-perception. I am rather glad it was there, really. You see, I was rolling along, listening to Carlinhos Brown ("O aroma da vida"), and I was again going the wrong way on Thorden Park Dr.--like Alec, but on a straight, highly visible part of the road, and during the day--and I was about 100 yards from the terminus of the road, where it connected with Madison and Ostrum. All of a sudden, a gray or beige station wagon of unknown make and model, entered my roadway, and started coming towards me, with surprising rapidity, in clear contravention of the posted speed limit. Instead of staying to his or her side of the road (their right side), the psychopath at the wheel evinced a strange predilection for the left side of the street. I swear, the maniac, gaining in velocity all the time, was actually rubbing the curb - my curb - where I was also residing, moving forward on my purple stallion, anxiety building. The game of chicken appeared to me to be unfair, so I capitulated. Braking, I leaped off the bicycle, luckily directly behind a metal light-post, and threw up my arms in offended consternation. What nerve! What homicidal douchebaggery! Heinous fuckery most foul.
People are clearly fucking with me.
I need to be on top of a mountain where I can see everything, 'cause this paranoia is getting old. - Shannon Hoon/Blind Melon (RIP), "Walk".
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