The Prophet Atukutu

A conversation awaited him with a prophet much like Tiresias. The conversation would change the journey of a man. But only if he learned from those words and took such advice. He didn’t know, but it would change his perspective and interpretation. Perspective and interpretation are quite difficult to encompass within the character of humanity in a few scribbled words, but it has to be tried every once in awhile. Who knows what could happen if you put some scrolls in a cave! Society could be changed, wars could be waged, or perhaps tranquility could be reached.

He stepped onto the stoop outside, peering out upon that street corner where large buildings silently stand with their mysterious unknown purpose towering in the sky. He wasn’t sure what to think. It was too much to comprehend what the IMF was or how the functions of his particular society were for the most part, centralized in a city where people commuted to it as if it were Mecca—worshipping the invisible hand and the gods of ancient times, the ones that laid the bricks of civilized society and began the indoctrination of democracy. Urban sprawl can be a good thing, right?

Oh democracy, such an ancient word in these modern times! The truth be told I find it somewhat confusing the bickering of equality, the separation of church and state, and the declaration of rights with the exception of eminent domain—among other things. Imminent is such a funny word. It could be my interest in linguistics. Those words that give us meaning and define our lives, they’re interesting. But I’m not a scholar or an academic. I’m not a priest or a businessman either. At this point in time I’m a tourist, wondering what the man up on the steps is thinking as he stares out in awe. An imminent threat could prelude him to Hades. Although, he doesn’t seem like a savage or heathen. If it were to happen, you know, then he has the right to, well—eliminate such threats toward his well being. At least that’s what those liars say about international norms. We’re in a more peaceful world now that Saddam’s gone. You know he tried to be a liar, but didn’t quite have the will. But that’s beside the point. It’s such a complex world that we live in. It’s a good thing we have professionals though. They’ve been trained to let us know when things are going downhill, if you catch my drift. I have a fondness of such men. I guess I should include women too. But let’s not get into politics. I’ll go on a rant!

But then again, if democracy exists and we’re equals, then perhaps men in suits wearing ties wouldn’t insist it or at least there wouldn’t be so much damn argument on the unjust ways of the civilized man. If one is civilized, one is humane right? Or perhaps I’m just taking too literal of a meaning of such a word. Ah, it’s best to leave etymologies alone and tend to the fields! Perhaps it was all just a fairy tale and the sweat on the brows of men was for those with dark skin and tough hands. We can’t all be equal but at the same time we are. But also, it has to be understood that not all contradictions can be solved. Goedel taught us that! There are some things that just have to be accepted or at least not rejected. No solution. No Sir!

And with thoughts such as these, passing from plane to plane of reality he began to walk out onto the city as the buildings stood strong. Suddenly things became more elegant and it felt strange to see such a city so clean. The white marble and granite shined in the afternoon sun and an old man with a beard sat in a chair, peering out upon the reflection of the sky, perhaps a symbol of eternity. There in the distance sat a massive phallic stone protruding into the afternoon sky. A young girl smiled cutely as her father took a picture. I’m sure Freud was wrong though. Too much coke and opium for that poor fellow, the Oedipus complex, what a hoax! Anyway, the pilgrims sat around munching on snacks they brought with them. The stone stood perfectly aligned. The winters down here don’t push things around. Frost can be a dangerous thing for the mason. He walked up to the stone man and gazed into his fake eyes then wandered around looking up at the massive etchings of words mentioned so long ago. Suddenly, it seemed as if there was a glimmer in his eye or that he felt some sort of emotion looking at those words. As if the boy that was he from second grade came to place the man’s hand over his heart, it seemed he believed and affirmed the meaning of such words. He then walked outside going behind the massive stone man to retrieve a glance of such a glorious city.

In the distance billboards beckoned him to purchase and the cars of which he could only hope to own one day, sat in lines as far as the eye could see. Traffic delay. Such sorrow he must have felt for his fellow brethren, as more solemn buildings received his gaze. Bank of America. Such patriotism his must have felt! Such a frenzy of jubilant joy that if he had been there with friends, they would have surely ran back to the pub where ales awaited them, and with their glowing faces, they would lift their glasses high to that infinite sky that echoed eternity within that pool of reflections, that pool of magic where a Negro man stood once before to have proclaimed he had a dream, and chanting those sweet tender notes of Francis Scott Key! Oh such patriotism was amongst this individual that I too swooned over the speeches made and felt with him a sour taste when I stood beside the pillars that seemed so sturdy but seem to quiver now daily. What would Orwell have said? Better yet, what would Ramesses the Great, Shelley’s Ozymandias say to such a towering empire? Perhaps the two would say nothing. Perhaps they would simply stare out upon such an image with neither words nor language able to describe such an existence of humankind.

He continued walking and sat down on a bench needing a break. Around him stood small trees that appeared to be plastic. He got up and ripped a leaf off now knowing that they actually did photosynthesize even though it didn’t seem like they did. On an adjacent bench sat a bundle of blankets and a stack of tarps. There were seven to eight individuals stumbling around that park and he sparked up a cigarette with his four dollar coffee. It’s expensive in the city in case you didn’t know. A man with a large gray beard much like the stone man he previously had seen came walking toward him. At first he thought perhaps he had picked a poor place to sit and rest. But within a few short moments he realized that the man was craving the same thing. He extended his hand toward the man and the man with the beard smile and exclaimed,

“Well, how about that! Ha! Boy, you’re good! Thank yea.”

“No problem.”

“Ah but problems are all around us! Don’t you see?”

“What kind of problems?”

“Ah what kind of problems, you ask? Lots of them. I know. You don’t but I do.”

“What’s your name?”

“My name? You, you want my slave name or my spiritual name?”

“Spiritual name, I guess.”

“Boy, why do you wanna be knowin’ my spiritual name?” he shouted as he lit his cigarette.

“My spiritual name is Atukutu and this is my place. I am a motherfucking prophet and I know who I am. The question is do you know who you are?”

He said his name but wasn’t sure how to react. He simply stared at the man trying to figure out what if anything was going to happen. Suddenly the man laughed out loud.

“It’s okay. You don’t know nothin’. You don’t know fuckin’ nothin’.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“I’ll tell you. There’s going to be a nuclear holocaust. That’s what. Bombs will be sent from fighting countries and the world will see its end. I’ve seen it with mine own two eyes.”

“You want to know something? This is all fake, man. It isn’t real.”

“What do you mean? This isn’t real?”

Suddenly something snapped within him and he began to talk to the man as if he were an equal. It didn’t matter if the man with the beard didn’t own a house, what mental disease he suffered from, or what potential danger the homeless have for such middle-class white individuals such as him.

“All of these buildings don’t mean a god damned thing! It’s artificial. The banks, the politicians, and the entire country are an illusion that forces assimilation so that few profit from what can be shared. Scarcity is a joke!”

“You think you know, huh?”

“I’m not from around here that’s all.”

“You ain’t got no fuckin’ idea. People be talkin’ saying that President Obama gonna change things. He ain’t gonna change shit. He just the same. He’s like you. That’s right. He’s just like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what tuloo means?”

“Tuloo? No.”

“Ah your eyes got all wide there. You know. You fuckin’ know. Don’t play me! All the white elitist know. It means heaven. And Obama is just like them white elitist.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Nah. You just a fuckin’ cracker. That’s what you are. You don’t know shit. Where the fuck you from? Harvard? Yale? Look at you. You just stay with your white women and I’ll stay with my black women.”

Not knowing what to say, he changed the subject. Looking down he found it hard to express himself in a place that took such pride in its appearance letting its core—the humanity that makes it run—dwell to such levels. He looked to his left and the bundle of blankets and tarps began to move. An old man came from under them, coughing as though he had bronchitis or perhaps just poor lungs.

“Well I don’t know about that. I like all women. Have you ever been to Maine?”

“Maine? Hell yeah, that’s way up there. Yeah I been there. Spent some time at a shelter, tried to find me a job. No luck though. You’re from Maine?”

“Yeah. Where are you from?”

“I’m originally from Panama. But I ain’t got no home. My mother brought me here when I was young. Got shot when I was fifteen, right here, by some black dude. It’s aight though. I was in the wrong. I broke into his shop. I was in the wrong.”

“Wow that’s crazy.”

“Nothing’s crazy, cracker.”

“Been to Vietnam. Signed up when I was 18. Didn’t shoot nobody though. But I’ll fuckin’ kill that motherfucker if he takes my spot again. You tell him. You see that man, I’ll kill him, you tell him.”

“Who?”

“Donnie Jones.”

“Okay.”

“Yea. I’m 57 years old. And I don’t take shit from nobody. But then again you don’t either now do you? Ahha”

“You know where I can get some food?”

“Oh yeah, there a McDonald right up the street there. Come with me I’ll show ya.”

The old man touched the younger man’s shoulder and introduced him to the others in the park. It seemed that the tension between them in their conversation had gone away or perhaps the man was going to be robbed. Police cars were nearby and the man had nothing he wasn’t willing to give.

“This guy need some grub. I said the McDonald is the closest. Ya’ll know any place closer?”

“Yeah the McDonald, right up about a block from here. You see that sign, just right there.” A younger man said pointing

“Okay thanks.”

“Hey hold up there,” the man with the beard said.

He extended his hand to the man and said:

“You see that Donnie Jones you tell him I’ll fuckin’ kill him. ‘Cause I don’t mess with nobody. But you know. You really know, Ahha. You take care. Don’t let nobody fuck with you. You gots any problems just let me know. And you can called me David, alright?”

“Okay, thanks. Have a good day.”

The man walked away not sure what to do. Although there are those that may call that part of the city dangerous or poor, it wasn’t. Or perhaps it can be for some. Perhaps interpretation is the sole catalyst that creates conflict but also the answer for how individuals can begin to understand one another. In a city where the poor live and those clutching their opportunities work, it hits the stomach hard. There are parts of the city of which he cannot go to, simply for being middle-class and white. Yet we define the injustices against those of the past and simplify them to say that these problems exist no longer.

The White House holds a Black man and his family but the streets are filled with the socioeconomic burdens of our brothers and sisters. But perhaps one could view those estranged individuals as not the family that bore us into this world. They can be called a variety of negative things but it is simply their hopelessness and the reliance upon themselves that will eat them away one day. When old men die with their treasures to be passed onto blood of future generations, they are only further aiding a world of injustice and tyranny. Our families will pass away and the rivalry between clans will only produce future conflict. Some say, "Don't quote that old German who spoke of conflict theory and other subversive snot!"

But to simply look past the man that looks me in the eyes, I cannot. Nor can the fellow that walked around the Empire's prime city to see it for what it truly was: a city where the light of wealth is etched in the white stones designed by privileged men, where the obscurity and darkness of suffering have been designed by the existence and acceptance of greed, a balance that can no longer be maintained! Such inequality! He thought looking at those buildings still high in the sky. They’ll be there tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. But perhaps they can still exist while the slights and degradations against humanity cease to exist. Perhaps the old man hacking will one day receive treatment for his sickness and David will be treated not as a schizophrenic homeless individual which some will define him as being—but perhaps he truly is a prophet of our time.