#6 Entrance to the Rodeo where we begin to walk
A walking tour from the rodeo ground's parking lot
Everyone is welcome at the Rodeo!
⍀ Weekly Link Rodeo
All nature is in a perpetual state of flux.… There is nothing clearly defined in nature.… Everything is bound up with everything else. - Denis Diderot
Upon my arrival to Mortlake Rodeo Grounds, I absentmindedly locked my key fob in the car. Somewhat distracted by the factory off in the distance that advertised a large catalogue of Deft, Stone, and Imaginative wares, which might’ve been most popular for its unique pottery. Off in the distance, there were two chameleons up on their haunches, seemingly eight feet tall, eating from the a trash can. Despite my distraction, the rodeo ground’s tour guide was tight-lipped and refused to divulge any information about the bulls’ training regimen or diet. I noticed an advertisement on the outside on the arena’s facade: the designs were similar to Roman atriums. I was told by the tour guide that the arena was inspired by designs used in the nearby factory, rather than being copied from antiquity. I don’t know though. It all seems like propaganda to me. The factory’s catalogue features images of hunting with stags and fierce animals being the main motif. There’s similar designs in ancient ruins and collectors’ cabinets, and it was fascinating to see them being created in a modern factory. At least to envision through proximity to the factory’s mechanic pistons, cogs, and other implements.
I was in a hurry — yet I had to return to my car — I couldn’t wait to see if I actually locked my keys in the car. I could wait about five minutes to contemplate the line to the concession stand, or the gates which passed fourteen prize winning bulls passed, though looking back, the ancient gateway was now bricked up, and the ruined walls of the ring, sanctified, during fifty years as the saintly residence for thirty-four different Pro Bull Riding commissioners. Learning that the enclosure was now overgrown, I could not resist the desire to see the grounds. I could not help but thinking, as proof of the sagacity of the bullriders, and of the luxury of the well-manured pits, that I have seldom visited such a decayed holy site now in possession of weeds. I stopped in front of my car. The window fogged up from the outside. Dust-crusted trunk of the car, someone wrote:
he isn't coming back whispered my head he has to sobbed my heart
Nobody would know in the moment I almost wretched.
As I returned my gaze away from the shitty poem scrawled on my car’s trunk. I gazed at the ruins, I couldn’t help but recall the past when the portico served as a sanctuary for those seeking entertainment under threat of bodily harm from activists. In those days, the religious zealotry was a path to eternal glory of botanical gardens, this gate was one of the many entry points to a place of worship dedicated to the divine art of roping. It was a symbol of power of charity and forgiveness, as embodied by the teaching of Cowboy Randall Janes, the second commissioner, who embodied the spirit of rope first ask questions later, no matter how great the applause.
However, in the current time, this principle of humility has been forgotten. The PBR judging committee and guidelines has been harsh and unforgiving to rookie bullriders as to those who committed multiple violations. At times some bullriders attempted to cover all the trending topics of the contemporary world: cereal box campaigns, action movie star, world poker tour, and endorsement on any other hot-button political objective. I can see through the bullshit though. Championship banners fraying wrapped around the portico in uneven distribution. The doors now bricked to those seeking a new champion and those who desire to approach the concession stand to buy a world-famous Stanley mug. Everything seems bricked up, so now even the diehard must turn to the intermediaries on the Internet to plead their case. Are we doomed never to enjoy the medium between bigotry and empathy, the pride of the bull-whip and the cruelty of the television remote?
Looking upon the will-call window, the charity once overflowed from this window during harsh winter days or inclement weather, a place providing food and mercy to those in need. Catholic Missions Services’ generosity helped mitigate the harsh weather in relation to the harsh effects from wealth disparities and abuses of power. As a result, the PBR, despite its flawed beliefs, earned the affection and gratitude of the local community. Jobs were provided for the community in a manner where it provided dignity. At the gate neighboring the will-call window and at many others through the arena grounds, the poor were not left to suffer. They were not subjected to humiliating proof of their unemployment checks or forced to trade their freedom for a meal. They were not intimated by the local sheriff for sleeping a Wal-Mart parking lot, or dragged into a factory. All that was required was that they were cold or hungry, and they were given food and shelter. Such was the system then, and now should it not be forgotten even when a money-firm bought up the arena grounds and dragged the last commissioner’s name through the mud for sexual allegations, nobody ever knew if they were true or not. Thus through prolonged court battles, brick by brick the gates were shut, and the muck began to solidify.
Although I was not particularly impressed by the remains of human labor, I was left in awe at the ancient vegetation that surrounded me. Two massive walnut trees, over 12 feet in diameter with trunks as a hefty as couple semi-trailers, caught my attention. Their branches tottering above my car. Keys still locked inside. These trees, which were generations older than the first of thirty-four commissioners, covered an area over the parking lot that stretched almost towards the will-call window. Standing at 70 feet tall and still producing abundant fruit, they had maintained their maturity for decades without any noticeable decline. While they are currently in a state of slow decay, I have no doubt they will continue to outlast my EV’s battery. I stood looking down at the shitty Instagram poetry on my car’s trunk.
×/⍳ Writing Prompt
Write a poem about the first Instagram post that you see.
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