Iverson Ruffin
abstract Cataract
Thoughts of Ulises: 2
“You stay away from that side o’ town. Ain’t nothin’ over there for you.”
...
That damn bus flew by me again. Honestly, I think they do it on purpose sometimes. The next one won't be here for another forty minutes and I don't plan on waiting 'til then. Center City was a journey in itself. This place wasn't filled with streets but rather the long pathways of a maze. There was no telling who - or what - you could find in this thing.
​
(Did I bring my pencils? ... Pretty sure.)
This district was wrapped like a gift no one would be eager to find underneath a Christmas tree. Instead of fixing the worn-down buildings with hammers, nails, and an underpaid crew, this side of town used cans, crayons, and lowly spirits. The buildings - on their last string of breath - survived by the colors and words splashed across them.
Here, this was a long overdue, continuous means to an end.
...
“Mmm, I wouldn't recommend it. It's ghetto. Have you looked anywhere else?”
...
This area plays games with people, strangers especially. You may catch it with some cards or loaded die ready to pull out of its back pocket. “Dead or Alive”, one of them is called: guessing which buildings are still functioning despite their corpse-like exterior. I lost once at one of its games... it was stupid. I chose not to play anymore after that. It would still try me though, insisting I play another while giving me delusions of luck and opportunity. Different games, similar rules, same outcomes - I knew it - but I'd be lying if I said I didn't see those die again; those snake eyes staring at me from the pavement.
​​
It was a labyrinth filled with drug stores, boutiques, restaurants, and people - all irrespective of their outer shells. Each block you'll see them: fancy, well-polished on the outside but caging a monstrosity inside. Or the polar opposite - an oasis in a desert covered by raggedy clothing and sorrows. I've dared to peek inside many times. You can never be too sure about what's going on behind walls and closed doors. And honestly, half the trick is realizing you’re not always looking at who someone is but when they are. Ghosts trick-or-treating in fresh skin, children trapped behind gray hairs and wrinkles. That too might be its own game.
(If a tree falls in the middle of the woods, but no one is around, did the tree fall? And just because someone saw it, does that mean they were supposed to?)
...
“Be safe over that way. Somethings always goin' off over there.
"As long as you don't go past the crosswalk, you should be good."
“If you can live here, you can live anywhere!"
...
(Those pencils better be in my bag. I'm not trying to walk back.)
​
They speak, but you won’t hear them if you’re loud. A soft whisper may deter their sound. They yell, screaming to the top of their lungs over the city’s skyline—and a whisper would kill it. How unfortunate - finally heard yet misunderstood. If you listen closely enough to hear the alley cat’s purr and the drag of a cigarette on its last pull, you will hear them speak.
Do you blame me for what you did to me?
Am I at fault for your hatred?
A beautiful canvas stained by an ugly palette.
...
Nothing stops here. For anyone. (Another bus on the same route just passed me). Everything constant. This place grows restless by that day; you can see the black bags under its eye growing darker. The days can be as stubborn as they are stagnant, like the hands of the clock tower that refuse to tick - it just stares...
11:58
11:59
11:59
11:59...
...
Crawling under the trashcans, sprayed on the wall, lying next to manholes - the screams that can be covered by a whisper?
If you say they're silent or nowhere to be seen, they'll call you a liar. Confirming them dead without checking for a heartbeat would be premature.
You don't hear that?
Those loaded die hitting the cement, a pen drop during 5 o' clock traffic.
​
​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Seriously: the howling wind pummeling through the streets and into the alleys, carrying the echoes of the present, past, and future as it whistles through an old timer’s teeth like windchimes? Missing teeth seemed to make a smile a whole lot wider, and somehow brighter. Its icy wind seeps in between people’s crevices, bumping into them on the streets; it makes people regret wearing a single layer of clothing.
As invisible as a homeless man lying face-up in the middle of the sidewalk, or the one crawling in the middle of the street, this place had a heartbeat that would not register. The walls talked, uttering and muttering the painted curses and blessings written on them. The pavement itself breathed in heaves; a crack in its formation paved the way for a garden. This maze and everything in it was alive.
On this side of the tracks, if you listen closely enough to hear the guardrails screech at the last stop and the uncertain bolts jittering, you will hear them: the beat of an undying heart, the chimes blowing in the wind. ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​
...
If you listen closely enough to hear -
(I forgot my pencils.)
