Memoirs FDNY 33 years Brooklyn firehouses, the "The Pride and the Heart of Flatbush" Frank J. Solimeno. I am not bragging about serving 33 years in the FDNY. I know firefighters that served 35 years under the old Pension System for full pay under $10,000 per year. I know firefighters that work until age of 65 years old, God Bless Them. I am doing this because I want to tell my story about serving in the FDNY companies of the 41 Battalion.
Prospect Park is no longer a democratic vista; it is a hell and purgatory of crime and no redemption. A once idyllic park reddened by the blood of wanton crime and ritualistic execution attempted by an upholder of the Law. Who is the derelict bum who has strayed into its now pathological confines? Who is the bum Rusty? The Talion Law grew out of my experience of twenty-five years as Director of the Youth Bureau of the District Attorney’s Office in Brooklyn, New York. I was aware daily of the mounting perplexities in the administration of criminal justice. I saw first hand the demoralizing pressures of overwork and shoddy compromise on the District Attorney and his staff causing a psychological warping of good men. A Chief Assistant, a close friend of mine, broke badly. In an alcoholic haze he used to wander into Prospect Park. I fetched him home on two occasions. He died of pneumonia having slept in the boathouse on a bitter cold night. So I thought: what if my dear friend survived the cold and drink, and awakened in Prospect Park? What might have happened to him? A park ranger’s mount is slashed on a bridle path. Swans are strangled on the lake. A hit man invades the park looking for whom. An old birdwatcher tricks him into an empty bear pit at the zoo. Why does the eight-year-old Jorge befriend the bum who calls himself Rusty? What does the Mafioso Solemner have in common with the bum? The Talon Law is rich in uncoaxed metaphors. The original aim of the park becomes a metaphor for the salvation of James Boerum.
A novel about the reappearance of the Greek god Dionysus in the modern world in the aspect and form of Priapus. Imagine the combined Wellesley and Smith College Field Hockey teams as his Baccantes. The novel, in sequences, is indebted to the play, The Baccae, by Euripides. Laetitia Lowell, a philologist at Wellesley College, on a solo field trip to the ruins of Pompei and Herculaneum, on the slopes of Vesuvius, lost, she falls in with a procession of dreamy-eyed women dancing to the music of tambourines, flutes, drums and cithars, in barbaric dress of blue chitons, bare legged, bare breasted, and holding what appears to be a thyrsus. Bacchantes! After two thousand years! She follows what she believes to be masquerades, hoping to find her way back to Pompeii. Suddenly, she is hemmed in by the hennaed and kohl eyed women, to witness what appeared to be a rite. When the troop stops before a grotto, a venerable man who appeared to be a high priest, summons a young man from the grotto who is attired in a golden robe. His hair is Doric blonde. A magnificent Greek kouros. The young man sits on a plinth at the entrance of the grotto. The women chant choral dithyrambs out of the Bacchae of Euripides. He opens his robe to disclose a huge flaccid male member that gradually becomes erect with the intensity of the dancing and singing -- then with a moan he ejaculates, spurting semen in a fountain spray in which the women dip kerchiefs and phallic ornaments to empower the objects as symbols of fertility. The young man is imprisoned in the grotto. Later, she escapes with the young man, Demetrius Angeli, who is worshipped by this recondite and remote sect in time, as Dionysus in the aspect of Priapus. For his sanity and safety, she brings him to the USA. He and his Wellesley and Smith College new world bacchantes (field hockey players) are then persecuted as a dangerous cult by a lady Attorney General. What ensues is the eternal confrontation and dynamism of Dionysan and Appollonian opposites. * * * Myths have no life of themselves. They wait for us to give them body. Let but one person in the world respond to their call, they offer us their vitality unimpaired. From Albert Camus, 1946.
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