Sunday, November 26, 2006

Shalom shall loom

Amidst howling wolves and prying coyotes, there stood a house scalloped by wild desert-berries and sunken wood-wheels. What is in there, man has thought ever since he has seen it disintegrate. One wonders and wonders like there is no tomorrow. Curious wayfarers passing by have either noticed its queerness or tried to locate what reeked. But no one can be unmindful of “The Hulk”. Its so strange on the outside that its a landmark that folks identify easily– Koko's Inns are behind “The Hulk”, Mac's Drugstore is just two blocks from “The Hulk”, Crazy Sardine's house is beginning to look like “The Hulk”.

Its outside is no better. It has become a museum-turned-toilet where men and dogs relieved their bladders when no one watched. What can be said of weather-beaten concrete that exposes its steel and that sharp stench? And the old Plymouth Savoy under the tumble-down porch, sinks in the golden sand, like a horse that can walk no more. The hot shiny sun has taken away all its color and the number plate that says 'The Hulk', still clings on to its last breath.

And all this reminds me of Ozymandias and the Aryan Neighborhood.

Lenmana, the flute girl, grew up in this Southwestern desert, her skin rapidly ageing with the gray wolves and the scummy shack.
Her withered smile is still withered.
Her hairs are silver white and her face looks like a blanched almond, for its color and the streaks of senility that runs all over.
Her eyes and palms are as parched as the bare mountains one sees to the east.

Her house looks no different on the outside. It is shaped like “The Hulk”. Most houses here look the same. Maybe there is a difference one cannot see, I wonder! As she opens her door, her pet rats squeak. ' Sandy and Tasha can smell me', she says confidently. As I see Lenmana drudging towards her kitchen, I look at her and try and guess her age. 'Over 80 easily'.

Lenmana explains the land like a tourist guide. She knows all the stories and all the secrets. Amusingly, she talks of Ben, the man from her neighborhood who crossed states to become an infamous Evangelical preacher. She tells me with a wry smile at the corner of her lips 'I always knew he was gay'. As I listen to her stories, I follow her as she follows her walking stick through the sands and through the ridges.

Not much can be explained of what one sees. Civilization will possibly fear to continue to live in this barrenness and cold. But Lenmana and the tens of others that make up the total populace here can never call it home elsewhere. Wakanda and Quidel are her friends, and perhaps the only living members of her nighthawk community. Besides, there are others like the odd dogs and me. And like these dogs that wander in Kalamazoo, most of the people you meet are either here to stay no more or have no where else to go. Of course, this desert quickly attracts desert animals, droughts, deaths and gossips.

I remember the song they sang when my vagitus brought my first sounds to earth, awakening those sleepy eyes and stirring those hands that killed.

For He shall come to kill and Save
From evil and plenty and cruel and shame
O La Suc-ki! O La Suc-ki!
Nights and darkness know His name;
He fends His neighbour and fleeces His foe
And nay heaven knows His bliss or blizzard,
Nor name like the land that loves Him.
And until memories shall no more exist
Suc-ki, He shall be, Suc-ki He shall be.


Strange shames get hidden in times that steal bad memories. Abandoned by sinners and wept by pitiful souls, shame embitters relationships haling man to leave behind those bad memories. The good ones, both men and memories, move on. But the bad ones, both men and shame, stay behind, retching as they shall decay one day, sealing their fates and lives.

The mysteries of this desert shall remain saved in Lenmana's memories and in the ashes the desert winds have blown afar. And in their wisdom of history and as an acknowledgment to the past, people of this land shall come and go, like ants in search of food. Now here I am, looking unto the mountains of the east, the farthest I can see, and time it shall tell these tales when my memory fails and when Lenmana will be no more.