"The God of Traffic Lights".
Well, I've always been fascinated by Medusa.
But why? Why Medusa Gorgoneion?
Is it because I am a male, and the strange, alluring, dangerous female has an attraction fatale for my sex? Sirens, spiders and Medusai. Death; war; shipwrecks; blood.
Art Galleries; rushing off to see the Post Modern Modernists Expressionist Paintings' room, I often fly past ancient images of a fellow named 'Perseus' carrying some ugly head or another. Turns out that, if I'd ever stopped and taken a quick breath, I would have long ago discovered that the bloody head on the silver plate was, in fact, Medusa's. (You can see the line now, in your grade three French textbook, Arrêtez-vous, Finnie! La Tete de Medusa et sur la pleit argenté .)
Medusa of course, as every primary school boy knows, had two sisters. And the whole family had hair of entertwined snakes -venemous naturally. And each sister could turn a man to stone just by looking at him in the eye. What a family, eh? Imagine the wild parties they must have thrown.
Not to mention the excitement of hair washing day.
Sadly for Medusa, only her two sisters, Stheno and Euryale, were immortal.
So, after wreaking a little havoc all around ancient Greece circa 490 BC (ever notice the Greeks have thousands of life like statues in odd positions?) poor old snake-haired Medusa was slain by Perseus, who, from memory, used the reflection in his bronze shield to line her up for the fatal blow. The coup de tete.
As you probably guessed, The Medusa fits in nicely with the story of The Case Of The Fossilized Dog (see previous posts). And was kindly suggested by our well read friend LDahl (who I see has finally come clean and revealed her secrets.)
The original inspiration from this image came from Arnold Bocklin's "Medusa" which you can see on this page. Bocklin has some amazing work, odd, spiritual and symbolistic.
And speaking of 'odd', remind me to tell you about the bottle I found washed up on the beach last week. Inside was a neatly rolled up piece of blue notepaper. On one side of the paper was scrawled something like:
"Help, I am imprisonned in the body
of a two year old boy.
My real name is Ghenkis Khan,
but my parents won't believe me.
Signed Tim."
'Odd' things happen in two's, not three's - have you ever noticed that?
Just the day before, while driving to work, I saw another 'odd' thing - "The Man Who Makes Traffic Lights Go".
He was in his early sixties. He had a long dirty grey beard. As he shambled along the footpath, towards the pedestrian crossing, he showed all the signs of alcohol induced neural damage. When he reached the curb, the Walk Sign was red, so he stood there wavering on his feet, gesturing shaman-like at each of the four traffic lights, one after t'other, like the conductor of a silent orchestra.
It sounds silly, but, when he waved his hands, his fingers danced like finger-puppet ballerinas.
As he stood at the curve, nodding back and forth, he flicked his wrists and splayed and pirouetted his dirty fingertips, pointing at each of the lights in turn. And when the lights changed on cue, unsurprised, he waved the traffic on with all the authority of the God of Traffic Lights.
As his hands danced through the air he had each driver waiting at the lights bewitched..... and each driver and passenger turned and watched him with admiration as they drove away.
And finally the grey haired God of The Traffic Lights flicked his fingers at his own "Don't Walk Sign".
On command it flashed green. Now it was his turn to cross. As he stumbled across the road, shambling and talking to himself, he waved on the traffic behind him with out looking back.
I peered into my rear vison mirror as I drove off and watched him as he dissappeared from sight.
It was hard to believe, but I think The God Of Traffic Lights was heading towards the pub.
Be back in a few hours. There's lots of people I'd like to catch up with. And lots of kind comments I'd like to answer.Thanks for reading again. :) I wasn't sure about the blood. The distance betwen the eyes is a nod to the Pre- Raphaelites.
