Ali and I have been attending a kung fu class sporadically for the past month. It is held nightly on the track by the edge of campus, a place bustling with students as they go about their various exercise routines.
Tonight, however, the kung fu instructor, a student, was to hold practice in the basement of a classroom building so we could use the mirrors to check our stances. Ali was preoccupied with her upcoming midterms, so I found myself venturing into the massive building alone. There were so many rooms and so many people; I had no idea where to go other than down.
I found the stairs by accident, and plunged into complete darkness. The air grew cool and damp, and I realized the basement wasn't what I had imagined: a modern dance studio with mirrors along the wall, wooden floors, and maybe a nice stereo. Instead, I was thrown into one of the strangest scenarios I have ever encountered.
The first thing I noticed was the walls: bare, white, and dirty. I felt as though I were in some closed off parking garage, and wondered if I was in the right place. Somewhere in the distance, accordions played unrecognizable melodies which eerily bounced off the walls.
Then I saw the bikes. Thousands upon thousands of bikes, piled, stacked, leaning against one another, and simply thrown on the ground. Pink ones, blue ones, green ones, and red ones, all obscured by a thick layer of dust. I couldn't comprehend what I saw before me--how could so many bikes be in one place? Where on earth had they come from, and for how long had they all been here? Some had dried out vines on them, some were missing wheels, and some had no seats. The garage went on and on, with ramps and doors leading to more bikes. Tossed amongst the bikes was everything imaginable: clothes, shoes, bags, trash, boxes, books, and more. I shuffled through one small, yellow book to see that the first page had faded completely in the time it had been exposed to the lights of the garage. The rest of the pages revealed that it was some sort of propaganda book.
Over everything was heavy coating of brown soot. I simply could not fathom whether or not all of this was real; it was so strange. I felt as though I were in a dream. Between the impossibly endless bikes, maze-like, multi-level garage, eerie accordion music, and distant, bodiless voices, I felt as though I were in a completely different realm. Just as Alice found Wonderland, Chihiro found the Tea House, and Darby O'Gill found the realm of the Little People, I felt as though I had found my own parallel universe. It seemed to me that reflected in all of these bikes was the endless expanse of time. At some point in history, each bike had an owner. At another point in history, the owner had left the bike to rust and rot amongst the chambers of forgotten ages. Here I was, browsing through this gallery of time, being watched by the tragic, unloved creatures strewn from floor to ceiling.
I found the kung fu lesson, in the heart of this strange realm. I was the only one there, which added to the sense of isolation. As the instructor guided me through the exercises, I couldn't help but wonder about my own bike. The slick, silver "Wolf" brand (affectionately named "Wolfie") was my essential means of transportation. On this sleek and silent beast, I practically floated around campus, weaving effortlessly amongst the slow walkers. When my time here was up, what would become of it? Would it end up in this catacomb, rusting away while I leave this place and live my life elsewhere? Would it be here, covered in dust, for decades and for centuries?
I suppose it was a strange reminder of our ethereal mortality. We live as though we are the first, the only, and the last. We are ignorant to the countless others who have lived equally important lives before us, and will never know of the endless stretch who come after. All we have is relics of the past, decaying pieces of an era that we can never know.
As I packed up and wandered through the garage, I stopped and stood for a moment. This wasn't just a basement or a garage. It was a tomb for the past. A memorial to all things now gone. The accordion music and strange voices haunted me as I moved up the ramp, but as soon as the cold March air hit my cheeks and I stepped outside, the sounds stopped abruptly.
And there was Wolfie, shiny and new, ready to race through the blissful world of open air in the here and now.
No comments:
Post a Comment