Alas,
I may run out of capital letters.
Of
course, the Metrodome was the scene of many failures and defeats as well. Gary Anderson missing his only field goal of
the season (the season!), and the 16-1 Vikings losing in the NFC Championship
Game. The various heartbreaking playoff losses
for high school football teams, the blowout suffered by Michigan when Duke
repeated as NCAA basketball champions (don’t worry; I had to look up who Duke played
too). Since there were also Monster Truck
Jams here as well, I would guess that Bone Crusher defeated or was defeated by
his foes. For in every sporting event, there must be a vanquished as well as a
victor.
As
I write this, the south side of the Metrodome is gone to my sight. I can see the seats on the west side and a
few on the south, and the steady beat of destruction goes on. I did not witness the two explosions that
have been part of the destruction, but did see the giant wrecking balls used to
begin the process. It was pretty
interesting to watch at first. The
stadium is only two blocks from this window I am writing at, but the different speeds
of sound and light meant for a gap between my seeing the ball hit the concrete,
and hearing the thud. I would first see
debris fall from the “storied walls” and then hear its moan a bit later.
It
wasn’t so much a moan as it was a thud, and as it proceeded, it became more
rhythmic. Thud-thud-thud. I didn’t try to time the swings of the
wrecking ball, but I would think that it helps for the operator to have a
steady rhythm going. A ton of ball
swinging on a chain from a tall crane needs to be channeled, and a steady,
swinging rhythm is one way to do that. At
times, it was like a bass beat, one that became monotonous after awhile. I could have counted out its beat. Thud. Thud. Thud. Destruction—whether by
wrecking ball, war, poverty or hatred—is known by its flashes of terror. But most of its work is a steady, slow
grinding down of what was once alive.
The
other thing I see from my window here—or rather, hear first and then look out
to see—are the buses unloading school children on a field trip to the Open Book
building where the Loft is located. They
“de-bus” (after careful, ignored instructions by their teachers) in the alley
between Valspar Paint and the Loft. There is a rhythm in their leaving the bus
and crossing the small parking lot to the building entrance, but anyone who
tried to count it out would be foolish.
It is an exuberant, joyful, polyphemous symphony of sound. The children, freed from the confines of the
yellow school bus, and freed, even for a second, from order and obedience,
shout, laugh and even sing. It is the
rhythm of creation, and it is a blessed messy bliss to hear it.
I
have a little ritual when the buses empty.
I open the little window and stick out my head and watch. I say nothing.
I do not greet the children, but just look at them. Soon one, than many, then a whole bunch look
up at me and wave or say hi. Or nudge their friends and say “there’s a man up
there”. I wave to the children and smile, but don’t say anything. The children keep up the rhythm. Some of the
shy ones wave slightly and look away.
Some of the loud ones try to get me to talk (that was me at 10).
I
haven’t done a thorough study, but it seems to my observation that I never have
to wait very long for a child to look up.
Children look up rather naturally.
I’ve never seen one of the adults look up, until a child tells them
to. They look at the debarking of the
bus, they watch to see that the children don’t wander off, but they never look
up first. Children do. That, I think, is
the beginning of wisdom.
Be
beauty. Be justice. Be the rhythm of creation.
Patrick
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