Albert-Writes

Ch 4. – Nomad or Not?

July 11th 2056
New York – United States of America

As Pompi walked towards the large mound up ahead in order to get a good view of the Old Town and it’s surroundings, they walked past a great many stones – imbued with mystical carvings. The mysterious prehistoric rings and dents seemed to glow, with their fillings of red ochre, in the pre-noon Sun. Smooth plane bedrock with manmade cup and ring-marks. The various marks and characters seemed to pop from the gray bedrock, symbolising the people who once lived there. AdTel chimed in with some complementary information, surrounding the topic of megalithic art: 

“I see that your curiosity has spiked. Do you want to learn more? I can tell you about Murujuga, Western Australia, which houses some of the oldest examples of petroglyphs, estimated to be 40,000–50,000 years old? Another exciting location is that of the petroglyphs tailing the caves along the dramatic Norwegian Coast. Or maybe you are more interested in their disappearance, beginning about seven to nine thousand years ago, following the introduction of precursor writing systems such as pictographs and ideograms?” Pompi shook their head, declining AdTel’s offer. They just wanted to experience the rock faces plain, as they were.

Some of the embossings, appearing like line drawings, with others seeming more regular and abstract; and almost like writing. The more stones Pompi passed, the more the symbols became repeated – and grouped together; almost like a time-line of the development of writing, from art, into something readable; something ‘alphabet-readable’. The church bells of the Old City Church rang in the hours – 12 tolls, and it was noon. An association bridged the two experiences – and a voice within Pompi echoed:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God.”
– John 1:1

Pompi continued up the large bowl shaped mound – setting their site towards the alphabetised ‘A’ of the triplet mounds. When Pompi reached the top of the earth work they saw more clearly, how artificially strange it appeared, in contrast to the more harmoniously wave shaped landscape. A sudden downpour of rain reminded them of how thirsty they were, a thought that at times became strategically suppressed whilst mounting a bike. Pompi looked down the large mound, and saw it parked at the bottom, with the water bottle still attached to it’s frame.

Up at the top of the mound, more and more things began to look like water. The clouds looked like water, the blue background behind seemed the colour of it, the viscous lunch-time saliva in Pompi’s mouth was it; from the steam of the clouds, to the liquid of the rain, to the seemingly solid state of water – trapped in the hydrates of the grasses surrounding them – water seemed to make up Pompi’s entire world. But perhaps, that was a far too blanketing statement, based on the rickety support of Pompi’s sudden urge for a drink. Of Pompi being a hammer, in search for a nail. As the rain painted the grassy fields slick with gloss, the mound seemed like an island amidst a large sea; and if there was an island in the picture – and islands were made of earth – the world being made entirely of water was solely debunked.

Pompi snapped back to reality. Pompi did not have to be an archeologist to understand that these hills were fabricated through mankind’s manipulation of an otherwise, flat cropland. Yet, unlike a trained archeologist, Pompi conjured up a mistaken image, of a bronze age hill fort – rather than the burial mound for kings which was the place’s true nature. Something Pompi only correctingly realised when strolling into a sign hammered to a fencepost. When they came upon the sign, they learned the following – and much more than that; for one, they were informed of the Old City’s location relative to the current City, from which they’d traveled from. The signage read:

“People first arrived to this part of America, after the Ice Age ice had receded, and opened up the lands to the people. At first, roaming hunter-gatherers only visited sporadically – for sorting out inter-tribal affairs, performing religious rites, and for trading with one another. But as the idea of agriculture became more and more refined, alongside animal husbandry, the premise of being able to stay put seemed all the more plausible. Although it took many millennia before the shift was realised, some of those nomads, gradually chose to settle here – putting their roots into this here ground, and these here fields…” Something in the text triggered a switch in Pompi’s brain. Perhaps, it was the word – nomads.

To stay nomad, or to settle? Pompi came upon that odd fortune cookie from some mornings before in their minds eye. Had it not contained that exact query? But then, red cars seemed to pop up everywhere – precisely for the lucky owners of said coloured cars. Pompi continued reading the signage.

“…the X on the map marks the location of The Labyrinth. A remnant from the lives lived by our predecessors, restored and reconstructed by–” Parts of the text were unintelligible due to some hastily graffitied swastikas, and some football supporter acronyms. A kind of markings which creeped up left-right-and center, and exponentially so. A labyrinth? How exiting, Pompi thought, as they cursed the vandals, and began walking down the burial mound – and toward the labyrinth. Being mindful not to trip over the large wads of grass on their way down, and back to their bike.

Vandals, they thought, were they innocent and noble savages, wrongly accused by the settlers of civilisation? Or were they rightly accused, and true criminals? Did progression through time – via civilisation – build decency. Or was it the other way around, that decency was innate, all since man’s emergence from the jungle, and only lost on the path toward civilisation. A path of abstraction which seamlessly disintegrated our natural bodies and minds, into the death of aging and decline; turning our smooth and athletic existence, into the saggy bodies of advanced city dwellers. In one way, the life of the Amazonian tribesman, was one of family and love – and an honourable focus to the most important things in life. In another way, the life of the Amazonian, was a life of unrealised potential – of a culture without off-spring, a sort of ancient hermaphrodite species; only focused on survival in the short term, with no strategy for storing up stocks for the inevitable winter. If it were a competition on leading an honourable existence, as individuals, perhaps the Hermaphrodite Amazonians would win. If it were a competition to lead an honourable existence, as pairs, perhaps the Gonochorist City folks would win – at least on average. That is, if it were a competition.

Another small sign greeted Pompi:

“Rerkoçeck Park – National Park Service, U.S Department of the Interior

Labyrinth – An Ancient Meditation Path
{ Restored 2050 in Celebration of the Royal Year }

– : { WALKING A LABYRINTH } : –

PREPARE – TAKE A MOMENT TO RELAX AND REFLECT

THE JOURNEY IN  – RELEASE CONCERNS AND QUIET THE MIND

THE CENTER – RECEIVE WHAT THIS MOMENT OFFERS

THE JOURNEY OUT – REVIEW AND REFLECT

EXIT – CARRY THE EXPERIENCE INTO YOUR LIFE”

Pompi began to PREPARE, and took a moment to relax and reflect; and in the reverence and openness for the experience – they opened their heart to a curious possibility. Then they stepped into the entrance of the labyrinth. THE JOURNEY IN – Pompi began releasing their concerns, one after another, like sorting their recyclables after filling a trash bin, taking it down to the environment room. Pompi took what needed recycling, the mental notes which fastened to their brain – like post-it notes, and ticky-tacky – notes like: ‘the most laborious parts of the commute which lay ahead’, ticky-tacky like: ‘their lack of a prepared dinner when arriving home’, and in that vain one though was plucked from the garden bed which was their soul. Their garden was made clearer, and ready for the fruits of the present; quieting their mind, and enriching the earth which cradled their soul.

Pompi reached THE CENTER, and took some time to be grateful for the unburdening result which had arrived. An order they had placed themselves, and made sure to remember as rewarding. This, so that they could remember to order it again, in the case they needed to, or what was better, preventatively so. Whilst enjoying the quiet bliss of the moment, feeling grounded to the earth beneath their feet, a blanketing shadow of a thought covered their brow;

a drop or two fell down on the tip of their nose, a swift wind made their jacket flap like a pennant; and off the cloud went, receding to reveal the beams of the Sun. Just as the cycle had come, with the advent of the rain, the pattern would unravel again, as they EXITED the labyrinth. An elementary formula hurled down upon their location. One – The Mound, Earth. Two – The Rain, Water. Three – The Sun, Fire. Four – The Gale, Wind. The classical elements bottled inside their head, as Pompi reachef for the EXIT – with the knowledge that everything in the world was ever-changing and in constant flux. As Pompi carried that world-view into their everyday slice-of-life; leaving the labyrinth with all but the aether of the supralunary realm behind them; one system of belief poured into another – as Pompi walked up the path to the Old Town Church – which faced the Labyrinth’s exit. With their stroll towards it’s gates, Pompi would walk in the meeting place of The City’s original congregation, inevitably exposing themselves to the breath of history.

When Pompi walked towards the dry warmth of the Old City Church, they briefly felt as if walking in the shoes of another. Someone more well-formed, and perfect. Like they had uncovered the unstable promises that the world beneath their feet tried convincing them of buying – realising their ploy for attention, for what it was, baseless. Instead, turing their head to another world entirely – some place much higher, much more ideal and secure. At first, perhaps – a short-cut that leads toward a detour, a high-place that’s really just a step above the ordinary. But then, later, as the years makes one wise — A world beyond reality expanding before the eye of one’s mind.

A world of ideas. For how can one make progress in the world of the tangible, the physical. In a game, where the playing field resets every dusk and dawn. How can one ever win at a game which begins anew, before one is able to finish playing. Perhaps, the heaps of the winnings of such a game, only pertains to the one seeing past the ruse of it’s rules, and the one who sees how the game is rigged – and smartly decides that the only victory achievable, comes from not playing at all; from refusing to participate.

The first question popped into their mind once more; Nomadic vs sedentary? Which civilisation would Pompi have others live through, if they had to choose. An inspiration toward an answer lay in their own two hands, and the handlebars of the bike around which they both wrapped; for the opinion of Pompi’s food-delivery colleagues was that migration came with opportunity – opportunity not present way back home. To participate in civilisation, or to withdraw from it? Perhaps withdrawing made for more freedom.

As they stood outside the Old Town Church, they quickly noticed how the church gate had been stripped of its copper ornamentation; made apparent by the violent twisting of all the ornamentations which could not be bent or sawed separate from its bolts and fasteners. What sacrilege, Pompi thought – even though they were not religious. To dismantle that which is made to stand still and unmoving, bringing it’s parts on a journey away from home. To withdraw from civilisation, or to to participate in it? Perhaps, participating made for more meaningful responsibilities.

Before the Old Church stood two guardians. The first one, had been the gate – a physical obstacle protecting the hallowed grounds in-between; it had been ravaged by the plunderers. The second one, had been a grand idea and belief, and through it’s secure measures, no thief stood a chance of dealing any damage. Pompi walked closer, to find out more about both; for in their testimony – lay the wisdom and experience of their predecessors.