Temple
In the early morning the new sun would pour a golden light through the windows that would blind. Fresh dawn over the parking lot and the caravans unloading congregants as they breached the gates, opened at the allotted time. The brief moments of stillness with the low eminence from heaven washed over the linoleum tiles and primary colored walls. The embolden lettering of the marquee title, the flag pole and the flag atop it. There was a broad awning over the doors held up by square pillars and wide, gentle inclines leading up. Two sets mirrored on opposite sides. Between them were harsh blocks of monotonous brickwork like a rung on a giant's ladder. Oppressive and most of it the same shade of brown. The south side. The north was much the same, but beyond its parking bed was an expanse of field as a moat and gutter to the busy street and residential mazes farther on. The road on the south was quieter and detoured and it was hedged by a small crop of trees that concealed a private park and, of all things, a golf course. Pine trees around the wooden fence and track field and the dark wander behind the stadium bleachers.
The facing entry walls were fitted with a row of windows. One after another in succession such that you could peer inside and see the whole breadth of the cafeterias within. The shamble of round tables and haphazard chairs in a loose sort of arrangement. Strange, like a sliver of view ports cut into an impenetrable fortress rampart. As though to preach the message that the place, like its wardens, was stern but accessible. Firm but fair. It was and it wasn't and a hundred thousand other things beside. When the bell rang the doors opened and the flood of people entered in. A river of sneakers rushing down the corridors to pool in bracketed antechambers with dam parapets that shut closed and opened again on a clockwork itinerary. The trafficking of early hours and early minds.
The light would sometimes be there then. A cascade of it on certain sides of the building that they waded through, moving shadows cast myriad on the interiors around them. An annoyance more than anything. They walked half-awake with closed eyes and shielded peripheries. Barely animate bodies shuffling on a track designated by the fluorescent bulbs lining the ceiling and the numbers on the doors. It had a room for each of them and a path to route. Long, expansive main hallways that turned corners and looped back around. Even they could feel choked and claustrophobic amid the glut of reluctant disciples in full stride going back and forth in unison. A clogged artery in a behemoth's circulation. The cement foundations ached under the legions of feet pounding routinely for year after year, decade after decade. But it stood stalwart, an unchanging rock at the behest of those so small and ambulant.
For forty years it has been there. Forty-four. The largest in the city, the county, the state. Its population north of three thousand on any given weekday. An entire nation closed off inside the walls with its own culture, hierarchy, and codified regulations in existence for only eight hours at a time. Generations pass through and it shepherds them with indifference. What mark could be made that would be remembered, that would last? When the years are finished they exit and leave behind little proof that they were ever there at all. The gears turn and another is queued up behind them. It's just a building, no different than any other. Institutional at best. But it's full of ghosts and remembrances unshakable to any who step foot there. They make it what it is, those souls who journey every obligatory morning on the dial. They make it a haven against the pressures of the outside, a relentless crucible to those ill-equipped, a vulgar prison in which to feel power.
Theirs are the names recorded in ledgers and hidden away. The writing on the walls that no one sees. Uncredited graffiti in secluded nooks and crannies. The untrodden paths and empty seats. If it were more than brick and cement and glass. If it could see and speak, what would it say? Could it distinguish one individual from another or recall those present from those long gone? They are a blurred and kaleidoscopic collage; all unique and all just alike. It does its job to set the table for them and nothing else. Just a building, just a place. There before them and there after. It weathers any panic or tectonic shift that befalls inevitably as its operators keep the machine gears turning and clean. Christened by the sharp light of youth, it dwells eternal inside and out. Like a kiln shaping, solidifying. Permanent. They enter and they leave as tabernacles of their own. But once, they were there.
The facing entry walls were fitted with a row of windows. One after another in succession such that you could peer inside and see the whole breadth of the cafeterias within. The shamble of round tables and haphazard chairs in a loose sort of arrangement. Strange, like a sliver of view ports cut into an impenetrable fortress rampart. As though to preach the message that the place, like its wardens, was stern but accessible. Firm but fair. It was and it wasn't and a hundred thousand other things beside. When the bell rang the doors opened and the flood of people entered in. A river of sneakers rushing down the corridors to pool in bracketed antechambers with dam parapets that shut closed and opened again on a clockwork itinerary. The trafficking of early hours and early minds.
The light would sometimes be there then. A cascade of it on certain sides of the building that they waded through, moving shadows cast myriad on the interiors around them. An annoyance more than anything. They walked half-awake with closed eyes and shielded peripheries. Barely animate bodies shuffling on a track designated by the fluorescent bulbs lining the ceiling and the numbers on the doors. It had a room for each of them and a path to route. Long, expansive main hallways that turned corners and looped back around. Even they could feel choked and claustrophobic amid the glut of reluctant disciples in full stride going back and forth in unison. A clogged artery in a behemoth's circulation. The cement foundations ached under the legions of feet pounding routinely for year after year, decade after decade. But it stood stalwart, an unchanging rock at the behest of those so small and ambulant.
For forty years it has been there. Forty-four. The largest in the city, the county, the state. Its population north of three thousand on any given weekday. An entire nation closed off inside the walls with its own culture, hierarchy, and codified regulations in existence for only eight hours at a time. Generations pass through and it shepherds them with indifference. What mark could be made that would be remembered, that would last? When the years are finished they exit and leave behind little proof that they were ever there at all. The gears turn and another is queued up behind them. It's just a building, no different than any other. Institutional at best. But it's full of ghosts and remembrances unshakable to any who step foot there. They make it what it is, those souls who journey every obligatory morning on the dial. They make it a haven against the pressures of the outside, a relentless crucible to those ill-equipped, a vulgar prison in which to feel power.
Theirs are the names recorded in ledgers and hidden away. The writing on the walls that no one sees. Uncredited graffiti in secluded nooks and crannies. The untrodden paths and empty seats. If it were more than brick and cement and glass. If it could see and speak, what would it say? Could it distinguish one individual from another or recall those present from those long gone? They are a blurred and kaleidoscopic collage; all unique and all just alike. It does its job to set the table for them and nothing else. Just a building, just a place. There before them and there after. It weathers any panic or tectonic shift that befalls inevitably as its operators keep the machine gears turning and clean. Christened by the sharp light of youth, it dwells eternal inside and out. Like a kiln shaping, solidifying. Permanent. They enter and they leave as tabernacles of their own. But once, they were there.
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