tattered

Some think their movement to be unimpeded. They squander. They loiter through the city. Here and there, they sit, letting the remnants of the sun lighten their haggard faces. Just yesterday, these scenes were everywhere. Frolicking and high-pitched, voices howled through the streets. It was a scenario like any other: artificial joy derived merely from random assemblies of people we term friends. It seems unlikely to strike up a companionship in places like these. Encounters of such sort are reserved for the short lag between nightfall and the glaring light of day. Apart from these almost ceremonial gatherings, the streets are governed by pace. The only obstacles to its deft speed are the ones that have given up, the ones who handed their life to the dawn of forgetting. These figures are peculiar. No matter which substance they use (and oh, there are plenty), a related erudition sparks their faces. No matter how lost they seem –in eternal peregrination or however fanciful you seek to perceive it– they know something. Their babble is disparate, sure. Some dance, some haul, some cry. A few have had enough, have missed the delicate gap between wakeful sedation and restless slumber. These latter ones fill the streets like refuse. People tread on them, trip during their manic expenditures. But the former ones, equally disregarded, they see. Through swollen eyes, through reddish-tinted globes, they stare. Their insight makes them laugh. They have lost, whatever there was to win. But what if they have chosen, or were elected?

Just look at that one, the one who haunts the alley. Whoever might trespass upon her collection of rat-infested curiosities is yelled at. Some might hear the warning; others, preferring to ignore, choose this alley to skip the busy road up there. What they fail to register is that they have entered her domain. For her, this rotten bench, the perforated drum, her sagging bag of donations, are all there is. And these few remnants of life need to be displayed lavishly. What we see in this alley, just like others, is a deftly curated assembly, one we are unable to read. Sure, we browse through books; some might even decorate themselves with their recent findings, using them to display their rectitude while sipping on a drink or two. But we fail to read; this is what needs to be understood. This is what we are told in places like these. She, with her bobbing breasts, half-naked, deluded. She, with her sparse hair, tries to let you know. Just ask her; she will tell. But we do not tend to think of such a possibility. Thus, she needs to resort to radical measures: dancing to never-ending rhythms, damning, throwing abuse at the blind ones with their plastic cups, reciting ominous incantations.

There are a few of the busy ones who dare to talk to the idlers. Such talk is rarely remiss: “Want some food?” “Yes, yes. Sure”. He affirms the trade. You nod, reasserting your pathetic composure. But he adds something odd: “I knew you were coming; I am a psychic.” It's a note you'd prefer to brush off, much like the pungent odor of urine that clings to your hardened face. But wait; let it linger on your tongue. You might otherwise overlook how beautiful an opening it is. Isn't it? It's an entry to a world as opaque as any other. This psychic not only took your meager leftovers, but he also promised possibilities. He offered a vision of an older kind. You chose to ignore it, as your desire is already satisfied. You return to the logic of the rush, more intoxicating than the strongest drug that the disparate dare to try. Very few of the city's dwellers hand themselves over to the regime of the squalid. Usually, this happens only if they lose, if the ferris wheel ejects them.

Have you never wondered why these figures always haunt the same premises? It's not only dogs that possess the peculiar intuition of territorial confinement. They seek to ward off the trespasser. There's a certain passage all the decrepit must accept. Initially, they try to silence the sharp voice of repetition. They themselves are presumably responsible. If they tried harder, reached further toward an unseen peak, they might not need to chew on their shoes now. But we might be progressing recklessly. You may return to your own path, one step after the other, toward the next best expenditure.

—

The city. This is where we were, where promises are made. Here, a magnanimous subterranean architecture is more breathtaking than the towering emptiness above. Only later will we be able to attend to these catacombs of longing. For now, you must content yourself with the circular proceedings below. It is only your meager logic that demands continuity, coherence, and ultimately, ascension. For us, riches lie in the toxic secretion that your glory effuses. This is where we seek to read, where we might even eventually dare to narrate. All of this, then, is a preamble, an epithet to the radiating virtuosity of the ones who see— the ones who have lost the lust for explanation and who need the shade to sustain themselves in the outskirts of existence. We just passed another one of these daredevils, half-slumbering, penetrated by every possible sedative, slowly pouring through the clotted veins of his passing body. He, like any other, recited from dreams that no longer concern themselves with retreat, that no longer paraphrase petty events from a life long gone. Henceforth, he recited from something which might be only the tremor of existence itself, an ancient rumor, of some sort. “Remain, remain upon the living”, “or pass, pass like any other”. “My doors are open”, “this is where I reside”, “sit, sit, for this is where we convene”.

At another corner, where sweet kids toil and the park offers a retreat from the blazing glare of the pavement, a broadly smiling wizard, dressed in a petrol garb, dwells. His reckless smile exposes a single tooth, which he uses to scrape some crumbs off an old loaf resting on his leg. Mothers and fathers warn their offspring. Some daring little ones venture towards the jester, while others shiver at the sight of his hollow, ghastly grin. He rarely moves. If you were to ask him, he'd share. He'd depict a scene so breathtaking that he seems entrapped within its setting, unable to do anything but marvel. Most perceive him as a hunter of children, waiting for his prey like a patient mantis. Often, the police had removed him. For days, he'd lie in a cell, closing his eyes, unwilling to release the scene that is beyond any recollection. Never were there any signs of wrongdoing on his part. They always had to release him from the windowless cell where they confine the inmates. And he'd return to his bench, his mouth resuming its smile in mere seconds, his split lips settling back into their petrified curve. Many neighbors see this man as a blemish on their verdant patch, a mark marring a beautiful canvas. A menace, threatening to engulf the stark monotony of an ordinary life— a life of toil, of promises. He never sought anything, but he would have shared everything if only someone had asked, had gifted him just a few minutes that could stretch into hours. His stories would have bled into what you consider the truth: more malleable than any other. Tales of something concealed, luxuriously opaque, lavish in its opulence, but of a different kind.

—

For some reason, the rats left. Perhaps the jester knows of their hideout. Recently, the administrators of the city issued a call: “Rathunt”. Its bureaucratic prose dared to venture into romantic terrain: “We seek the virtuous, the brave. Those who long to restore their city to its former glory. To once again let it glimmer and reclaim its sublime polish”. Lush rewards were offered. Anyone who dared to implement measures of the greatest fecundity would be well-rewarded: “More coins than your bags can heave.”

Only a very few gathered during the first hours of darkness. We must recall that this place reeks of speed. As long as you are on the move, life will reward you. Thus, there is little time to ponder such demanding purges. Undoubtedly, there is a large proportion of those termed “worthless”. These individuals have yet to prove that they have the guts to leap over the gaping abyss of failure. Some of them gathered, armed with sharpened sticks and filthy buckets. A few groomed dogs —leftovers from an opulent life— were used to track the elusive prey. There was nothing to be found. One of the younger peons directed his high pitch towards a slumbering wretch: “Hey you, you reek like a rat. Let my dog take a whiff”. The resting figure only raised her hand, embracing the caressing and clueless poodle. The hazy glow of the night fueled the expectations of this marauding band. Each exaggerated more than the last, chasing each other into a lucid fever dream. They all thought of anecdotes, each more lavish than the previous. They haphazardly waved their sticks through the air– sharpened like pencils on the first days of school (still mesmerizing and frightening).

Slowly running out of steam, the youngest lad, pockmarked and slim, boasted: “A few days ago, I learned of a hideout. Where the ratking houses. His crown, I'm tellin ya, shines brighter than a punch in tha neck”. “You ingrate”, harrowed a fat one: “them are called ratkings because their size is humongous”. “Thrice as big as any youngling of these critters”. A third, fletching more metal than teeth, corrected. In a magisterial voice (he’d picked up from the train track announcements): “Ratking, because of the tangled tails”. “These rats mess with each other, cruder than you care to imagine”. He took a drag from the mighty pipe he carried. Heavy smoke billowed, enshrouded his head: “Then their tails tangle”. “No one escapes, and thus, the king is born”. Stupefied, the disparate group proceeded in silence. The hunt was in vain. No rats were skewered. Some believe the decrepit formed a pact with the rodents, imploring them to hide– to flee to the lower levels of the sewers, where the most depraved find refuge. For a few weeks during that ominous summer, the city was free of rats.

—

Still, the flailing stagnancy of these days –perhaps more than any other– exposed the patchwork meant to prevent a great implosion. Misery bulged at every seam. A few more swollen bellies, a slight increase in depravity, and the belt, tying these staggering ends together might tear. For the virile, flooding the city, this delicate balance is its most alluring feature. How marvelous that a single organism houses all these poor folk, not only providing rotten food on their paper plates but also granting them the riches of every possible desire. Such a scene is reminiscent of a reckless promenade on a tearing dam. Cars soar through the few alleys that miraculously avoid congestion, alleys not yet transformed into a solid mass of metal. The cacophony of horns invades the sidewalk. Here and there, cabs come to a halt, expelling their passengers who are in search of nourishment, sedation, oblivion. The pavement becomes a sea of flesh. If you try to identify individual faces, you're met with looks of confusion and malevolent contempt. Words are used sparingly, with precise calculations determining the energy conserved through a peculiar semiotic diet. Some people raise their gaze to the sky, searching for an escape amidst the corridors of towering buildings. However, most recognize they are ensnared by a creature that proliferates in every direction, a creature that now operates without clear direction.

A peculiar tendency characterizes the cancerous expansion of new “developments”. Breathtaking columns are erected, in the few remaining vacant spots. The most congested parts of town offer up their roofs to parasitic additions. Blinding cubes of glass sit atop them -emanating an acidic sheen- appearing completely detached from the humbler buildings below. The only thing they share is their drainage system: glistering pipework is crudely attached to aging drains. The buildings below strain under the weight of these prosthetic additions. Even more remarkable are the windowless monuments that sporadically appear. Their stonework boasts incredible detail, with carvings of infinitesimal depth. It's as if armies of artisans were summoned to perform a forgotten ritual, constructing ant hives to safeguard unknown treasures. The only openings in these spires are hidden from the casual observer. Some resemble lime formations, shelters for the countless workers who tirelessly strive to rise above their humble beginnings. If one took the time to observe these dark monasteries, they would quickly note the charming stillness surrounding them. No one enters, no one departs. But why would you squander precious minutes, which could be used to put distance between you and this borough of cutthroats?

In the alleys, you can still find every imaginable treasure. Paraphernalia from the dilapidated countryside sits beside voluptuous fruit that tempts with sweet desire. There are counterfeit goods, produced in the backyards of their authentic counterparts. Malware of unknown origins offers access to Babelian archives. Alternative medicinal treatments and obscure readings promise renewed virility. Of course, alongside the more acquired goods, you encounter the typical city fare: drugs, purchasable flesh, promises.

—

Oh, you might sneer. You’ve lost the thread again. There's nothing to lose, we would argue, when the fabric is already torn beyond repair. But unlike you, we don't try to weave the ends together into a makeshift garment, to protect against the terrifying roar of a fierce storm. Instead, we seek to speak of something that seems much older than all of this. Older than the pathetic pendulum that swings between effort and success, truth and falsehood, life and death. Therefore, we urge you to exhibit a touch more patience than usual, as we all stand on unfamiliar terrain.

Take this deluded individual as an example. For the past week, he's occupied a 20-meter stretch of this treacherous, pockmarked road. Remarkably avoiding the speeding cars, he sings. With all his might, he bellows, hoping only to make it through the few remaining stanzas yet to be voiced, restarting as soon as the final syllables are drowned out by the cacophony of traffic.

At certain corners, disparate groups congregate. Some of their members appear almost too frail to endure, as if a gentle gust could tear them apart. Meanwhile, others, staggeringly imposing, dominate with their sheer size, casting a remarkable presence on the casual observer. All are fashionably tattered. From a certain distance, one might wonder if they are emulating the latest fashion or if, ironically, the latest trends are mustered after their striking destitution.

Often, they engage in heated exchanges. Small portable speakers punctuate the environment with pulsating beats. A few onlookers seem lost in thought, grinding their teeth rhythmically. This particular assembly appears to be observing a wedding ritual. A formidable figure, presumably acting as the priest, stands out. The others form a semicircle around him. On his head, an improvised headdress made of paper bags teeters precariously, constantly under siege from pigeons vying for a new nesting spot. One of his hands grips a pole with a basket attached, occasionally thrusting it towards onlookers as a makeshift collection plate, seeking alms from those who dare interrupt their solemn event. His other hand wields what could be termed a scepter, though its resemblance to a crude club is undeniable. As the ceremony progresses, the group begins to chant harmoniously. It's unclear who the bride and groom are, or if, perhaps, this union binds them all. The priest bellows, “I hereby pronounce that from this day forward, you are bound together. Adhere like the stubborn gum on my shoe”, froth forms at the corners of his mouth as he continues, “share everything there is to share. Dream collectively. Cherish life and distribute your minor miseries amongst one another”. His eyes seem to protrude even more now, “perhaps shared pain is half as intense”. In a spasmodic burst, the group expels a final cry. Hurriedly they disperse into all possible directions, holding tight to the sworn oath.

—

The single sensation shared by all during those peculiar days was an overpowering, intoxicating aroma. Initially, no one found this out of the ordinary. Steam always billowed from the sewers. Erupting tirelessly like geysers, these plumes carried a wide array of scents. Layered with the ever-present musk was the distinctive grime of the streets—mounting garbage, exhaust emissions, and the unceasing byproducts of urban life, mingling to create a unique bouquet. However, these days stood out. A pronounced fragrance wafted through the air. Its source was elusive, yet its presence undeniable. At times, one might believe they had pinpointed it, with vague associations forming. But just as quickly as they arose, they'd dissipate. Not the aroma, but the thought. The scent persisted, relentless and undefeatable. No amount of menthol rubbed on one's nostrils could offer reprieve. The odor wasn’t inherently unpleasant. It was unsettling, yet at the same time, it invoked a deep-seated desire. It defied classification, dominated every space, and pervaded every layer of the city. Typically, the city's elite could escape the pedestrian odors below. Their balconies and terraces, perched high above the streets, boasted a lavish array of lilacs, climbing roses, and hydrangeas. Tended by an army of hired hands and bolstered with potent fertilizers, the fragrant blossoms once overpowered all else. But during these days, even this contra-olfactory regime could not shield them from the harrowing whiff of the streetscape.

Days later, the city's scribes descended upon the most affected areas. Their investigations yielded nothing extraordinary. They operated their sophisticated measuring devices: a tube, extending from a large machine, suctioned the mysterious odor. A giant vacuum cleaner funneled the fumes through the machine's innards. Intermittently blinking lights confirmed the operation's progress. Two bureaucrats lounged next to the noisy contraption, which was mounted on a massive truck. Sharing an overweight bottle, they were consumed by their enthralling thirst. Every so often, one would tap a wobbly screw with a wrench, while the other wiped a spherical window —used to peer into the machine's guts— with his greasy handkerchief. The pistons, just like the mechanical axes, seemed overtly antiquated, but it was exactly this makeshift design that seemed to reassure the onlookers: “They're finally addressing the issue! Look at that hulking mass of metal; surely, it must be effective”. As the procedure neared its conclusion, the machine's clamor gradually died down. A specific sequence of blinking lights conveyed the results. The two tipsy bureaucrats consulted an extensive chart to decipher the readings. “Nothing new, eeh?” hissed one of them. And with these fragmentary comments, they closed the investigation.

It was one of the toothless in the park who approached the issue more lucidly. Lately, her dog behaved more pathetic than ever. The pincher was always a little idiotic. But this time was different. No matter what, he would regard anything as a suitable benefactor, to receive his gift of life. Unfortunately, he carried it too far, damaging his reproductive organ until she had to drastically reprimand him. She had to tie what was left to his ailing body. But the poor wretch continued; his hormonal frenzy would not let him rest. She eventually decided to drown him.

She knew it; this smell was different. No one would listen to her. Thus, she talked to whatever would complacently remain within reach. Transfixed at one of the gaping garbage heaps, she stood aghast. Somewhere below this edifice of waste, a trash can was waiting to be emptied, its outlines were indecipherable, too magnanimous were the meters and meters above. Things squinted at her, a caterpillar rose from a rotting apple, waved lusciously. Right next to it, the remains of a sandwich blinked attentively, fungal threads more beautiful than the most promiscuous eyelashes. Stagnant rivulets of soda, pooled below. In this small vitriolic lake, she recognized pursed lips, attentively following her report. Thus, she intoned, raising her voice while the simmering garbage eagerly received her message: “You fool, don’t look at me like that”, “all that pretty eyes and lavish looks”, “such liberal behavior leads us nowhere”, “you don’t even know me”. The sandwich had collapsed by now, releasing its spores into the stagnant air. She felt the urge to depart, annoyed by such blatant flirtation. Yet, she was rooted in place. She wasn't accustomed to such undivided attention. Typically, she existed in the shadows, unnoticed. Being invisible was a sort of protection— one you could acquire in the more obscure parts of the city.

The residue of a turquoise beverage swirled around her weathered boot. “You don’t want me to leave, huh?”. “I understand, being left alone, everything is as dreadful as it gets”. “At least you are of the listening type, I mean, your smell is no good, but your looks are splendid”. “But you know, I don’t give no damn about them appearances”. “How I see things, everything, or most everything, is graceful”. In the topmost part of the heap, some critters chewed their way through what was left of a serving of fries. Everything was furtively moving, and she could not but perceive an affirming nod. “You must know me”, “over there, the squalid bench there, this is where I reside, if the sun burns too eagerly”, “that’s where I am a little more visible, where they toss their coins at me”. “Usually, I say no; no need for your little presents, gimme some of your time, or leave me be”, “no one bothers to retrieve them donations again, for they are already pregnant with relief”. She paused a little, but as there was no opposition, as the heap was still complacently in position, she continued. “Yesterday, I drowned my little rat”, “usually, he would swallow them coins, ask for another helping”. “I had to train him”, “give them back you manic fool”. “But for some reason, he did not understand that chocking on them coins was no good, that we could not process that filthy metal”. “Maybe he felt special that way”, “dumping his load, specked with riches”. Sweat collected on her brow as she delved deeper into her tale.

A substantial plume of vapor erupted from the peak of that foreboding heap. “Hell. I know. Sometimes you ought to release yourself”. “No good, to keep all them pressures lined up”, as she gnawed on her lips, she swelled, doubled her volume. “That rascal of mine, he is no more”. “I had to throw him into the pond there”. “Sure, he can swim”, she paused. “But there was that game we trained. Keep hidin I call it”. “He was a master at it, so he kept hidin under the water. Until there was no need, no more”. “You see, something ominous is gatherin, I can feel it in my gut”. “That wretch tried to show me something, as he humped everythin, as he tried to relief himself from a pressure, gathered up”. “His penis was riddled, like them tents the administration provides, to hide us in plain sight”. “To gather our belongings, as they say. Have a dry head, as they say”. “I prefer the open sky”, “this way I at least see them stars, marvel at them before they smack my head to pieces”. “I am tellin ya”, “something is brewing, and you better get your ass out of here, before all them vaults shatter”. Since she began her tale, the pile of trash had noticeably diminished in size. She turned away just as methane clouds embarked on their ascension. “Goodbye you fool, thank you for listenin, you know where to find me”, and she repeated: “better get your ass outta here before it is too late.

She embarked on her customary walk. Traversing the undergrowth, she sensed the vitality of life. In truth, she felt an abundance of emotions that words couldn't capture. Decades of hardship hadn't brought her down or pushed her towards the temptations of oblivion, numbness, or fantasy. She often chuckled at some of the newer customs that had emerged in her surroundings. “Unfeeling, that’s what they call it”. “When the pain becomes too much, you just stop”, “you just don’t keep it together no more, you burst around the seams, trickle over the pavement like puddles of soft-serve, left behind by these juicy toddlers from up there”. She pointed towards the city of the skies, and she retreated again. Crawled into a silent cavity, into the crevice they call self. From there, rarely anything would lure her out. In there, she would be trapped in riches, too expansive to contain.

If I become young again, I will regain composure. Yes, yes, taut, and virile I will steady myself. Will banish these specters that haunt me. Hunger. The vulgar one. The one that converts your mouth to a bag of sawmill. The one that makes you lose your teeth and lets you gnaw your tongue. That’s the one they banished. That’s what that pamphlet declared. The shiny piece of paper they handed over. ‘No more hunger haunts the city. Heaping servings for everyone. Get yours today’. The others, from the opposite corner, they went there. Returned with bloated faces. With flecked cheeks, all puffed and decrepit. Their food consumes them, that’s what I howled. I rather suffocate on these generous helpings they drop at my porch. Who knows why, but they seem to forget that there is another hunger. One that paints in the brightest hues. One that barters with promises, distributes them generously.

—

And what if your life stretches into this long, never-ending density. A dough that won’t tear, no matter how vicious you smack it, no matter how violent you lunge into it, it sustains, grows bigger, covers any filament of your innards, you think that this might only be provisional, intermediate, that the density eventually lifts and gives rise to the clarity of vision, to the sharpness of a dagger of light, cutting through time, and piling the spent moments on a drastic pile of revelry and of course, lovely integrity must not fail you, will let you be remembered, thus, no matter how you dash through time there will be some relational corner of existence which carries you in a palanquin, which lifts you beyond profanity which forgets your failings, elevates your expenditures, into lofty tales of honor, generosity and of course, virility for you must never forget virility that disgusting embrace of the vertical, of the removed, of the blinding, of the blood-filled circularity of inside, outside, and sleep, finally sleep because this was too much already, please accept this was too much, too much intensity for these thin layers of membrane that separate me from my innards, me from my blood, me from my integrity, from this ominous drive that lets me rise after I slept, slept the sleep of forgetting, this toxic and yet so pleasing sedative, oh yes, more of this will sustain me, I know we started with scruples, with doubts, maybe even with critique, although we don’t know what that would imply, yes sure, sometimes we see, pierce through these odd layers and layers of clarity that present us everything in plain sight, even suffering, even death, even the petty pilfering of people that try to squeeze life of its remaining secretions, who want more of it, more of it, and now, only now, for later, after, at some point– is unacceptable, is even worse than before, yes worse than before because before I might sometimes remember, some lucid times when I contemplate my failing but later might be never, later might be never and never is such an ominous word for how can we not think of it, if we are already thinking it, already lived a life of absence which was always nurtured by that which was not there, by this odd sensation I have where they usually situate the kidneys, where they say that all the crap is filtered, where they say my sewers are? These portable sewers are a handy thing. “I hope mine won’t fail me no more”, and with these words, she wandered off, hugging herself, attempting to warm her frail body, seeing, seeing too much.

—

All this portrayal of decrepitude in which you take pathetic delight. In which you decipher a more veritable portrait of complexity, the irreducible, the non-generalizable. These domains were known, they were inhabited. Long ago, they have been claimed by squatters who moved on once they realized the prices they expected. The squatters from above thus live in a purely relative domain, interchangeable. Once they detect waning potential, they leave. Maybe they return eventually, for there is a sumptuous delight in marveling at the demise. Marveling from above though, from above, of course. But if they return, they do so only for a short while. They need to flee, before life becomes dull. Before repetition sets in. Before habituation strikes them down, captures them in a net of profanity. They need to leave to repeat, and they repeat to feel again, feel the need to flee, to run, to dart recklessly. It’s simple. Listen. Buy, at the right time, of course. Sell again– only once the slow ones catch on. You have to sell, again, at the right time. But once you bought, there is less to worry, for the selling permits idling. But not the buying, the purchase definitely cannot wait. Buy, buy and stack. Like you do in your cellar, to prepare for the darker hours. You might wonder, where do I take the money from, you fool? Well, this I cannot answer, for I only use money that I have been given. Given because I was there, at the right time, at the right place. Simple. Ain’t it? If you do not happen to be one of those, there is not much I can tell you. But I assume hard work will do. Though I am not one of them, selling these wares. This tedium of hope is the good of other merchants. I privilege the shortcut. The passage through the middle, where everyone is plainly visible, but no one wants to be seen. You know, if you bought a little and sold a little less, a little less because we always want to stack some, if you did that, you might be just fine now. Prosperous, laden, garnished in riches. That was not what we wanted to outline though. Thus, take this brief detour as a supplement, an extra. Nourishment for your crafty mind. A compensation.

Speculation transformed these zones into lifeless husks. Once vibrant and bursting with youthful exuberance, only the towering branches remain now. The sparse foliage is deceptive for the structure is dead. It is a remarkable death. As the undergrowth decomposes and gives birth to new forms of life through unfamiliar relationships, the once fertile depths, which were once home to thriving roots, are now bustling with a different kind of activity. The top layer, however, remains standing, its frail and weathered form will need more years before it crumbles. Until then, the elites will protect themselves, hiring peons to maintain their aromatic defenses and repel intruders. Meanwhile, the downtrodden are the ones patching up the most evident damages, linking their scarce possessions to a familiar anguish. It's their shared pain, which extends beyond their individual losses.

—

And when, finally, you agree that I was not merely rambling, we might want to move on. But don’t neglect it, wringing these words out of my numb substance costs me more than I dare to concede. Sure, it delivers as well. Tends to a pleasure that thrives in the shallow tides of stagnancy. But you are bored, I feel it. We should rush onwards– pick up the thread that was never rendered explicit. That always needs to figure first. After a few pages at least. If it is not sparkling, like some hideous gem you unearthed after a life of treachery, you don’t bother to pick it up. You leave these passages behind, ignore these words that never count and only recount themselves. You are looking for a thread that grows, matures into a brute rope, trusty enough to lift a veritable weight. The weight of memory. 

We are like ragpickers, shelving all the bits and pieces of drapery we can acquire. Storing them until we gathered enough. Eventually, we will be able to knit them into a comforting blanket. Something that soothes us, warms us, when we need it most. I know, such tapestry is not particularly popular. Either you are able to narrate, to tell the tales that move everyone, or you are just one of us idlers. Most of us think that our petty lives are rich enough, that they burst with detail. Intricate narrators consume these memories. Swallow them until they are filled to the brim. After a while, they feel ready to write, to spit it out. Filling pages with all but the most necessary. With all but the most quotidian. Simple, concise, reduced– what a great story. Add some misery, some drama and don’t forget love. Love is essential. People will thrust these pages out of your hands, asking for more. But collectors, akin to ragpickers, don't aim to recount. They collect discarded moments, piecing them together into a diverse collage. What results is a disparate assembly. Wanting cohesion, these tapestries don’t guide anyone, they don’t lead you anywhere except back to yourself. Back to your irritation– born of emptiness, shaped by eccentricity. I remember that during these days of great commotion, people just continued. Without swaying, they went ahead. While no one could ignore the smell, most did not bother to consider it. With clogged noses, they continued. Most everything was suitable for plugging the nostrils.

People in possession of gas masks were the best equipped for the situation- always ready for any contingency. Resilience is just for the poor, they said. Properly equipped, the city was as always. Where Fringe-Town met the crossroads of Misery and Revelry, a massive drill worked tirelessly, piercing through the road. Aiming for the innards of the pavement, the chisel relentlessly battered down. In the surrounding apartments, furniture was rocking back and forth, moving to the rhythm of progress. Empty faces stared into the street, their eyes bulged upon any smack. They didn’t know what was going on. The street had been vacated for ages. Initially, it was a congested road. Juice stalls catered to the busy, always thirsty for more. One day, the street just collapsed. To be precise, it imploded. Cars were consumed, others were thrust apart. Upon the first shock, they promised a redesign, and opted for rerouting. The street was to be elevated. Leaving the pavement below to the neighbors. In the tranquility of peaceful shade, they were to thrive. The design did not mention that the planned highway was to cut through the entirety of Fringe-Town. The street was not to be elevated. Quite the opposite, the slum was to move below, into the sewers. ‘The Great Clean-Up', it was titled. Of course, it never happened. Which is not to say that this forsaken part of town has since then been reconnected to the city’s infrastructure. It has been cut off. Ever since the collapse, the gaping hole in the street marked the perimeter of that great, decrepit organism. Thus, it was even more surprising that, all of a sudden, a mighty battering ram lunged into the ground. It widened the hole, until it stretched from one side of the street to the other.

One of the juice sellers avidly spectated the scenery. He couldn't avert his gaze. The few remaining crates of fruit had long been emptied. Some rotten apples frantically lunged into the air when the drill descended and crashed into the pavement. The road’s closure put an end to his once-thriving business. The manic onrush was no more. All the busy ones used to crave his concoctions. They would toss out orders from their windows, informing him of their week’s schedule. They expected their refreshment to be ready once they briefly slowed down to not flatten the elderly, traversing the road. Remnants of his stall still advertised infamous recipes: ‘Vile Vitamins’, ‘Juice Jug’, ‘Lemon Leprosy’. Now, he could barely survive on a few regulars. As they were all from the neighborhood, the recipes had to be amended. He sold filtered water with a whiff of juice. A warning sign was mounted in front of his stall: ‘Do not trespass. The city council is renovating your borough. Please beware, excuse the noise, and thank us later. Any inquiries shall be directed to the central office, Yours sincerely, the Administration’.

Additionally, the vendor had been asked to store some leaflets which informed about the construction measures. Specked with marketing jargon, the leaflets were indecipherable. “More beautiful than ever”, “new housing of incomparable comfort”, “apply now for the first units”. Some of his customers had tried to visit the mentioned 'development office'. The address was an empty lot at the other end of the city. More confused than before, they had to return after a daylong journey. Of course, no one trusted the floral prose of the promises. During the night, harassed by an unrelated stench and by battering noise, the neighbors retreated into their damp cellars. Throughout the days, they lined up at the windows trying to decipher what was going on. Like the audience of an obnoxious play, they could do nothing but spectate and wait, wait until it was over. Some cellars were already flooded. Minutes after a sledgehammer whacked down an asbestos wall, dazed workers would peep through the new hole and ask the neighbors to leave: “Better go. This will soon get ugly”, they muttered. Construction lasted day and night. Continuously, overweight trucks transported workers in and out.

At first, the juice seller thought that his business might start to blossom again. But the council catered to the workers. Imposing kitchen tents dished out heaping servings. Beer flowed liberally. Drunken workers worked more efficiently, they assumed. Soon, the juice seller realized that this was just another deception. He refused to leave. Such refusal did not serve him well. He remained standing on an island in the gaping hole. His small piece of pavement was intact, but to restock or to retreat after a day of drudgery, he had to leap half a meter over the dark abyss below.

“You cut yourself off there”, yelled one of the oblivious workers. Without flinching, the juice seller tried to remain steady on his sinking piece of pavement. He tried to document what was going on. He scribbled disparate notes on the yellow paper he used to record the debts of his customers. To whom would he turn with this report? The leaflets mentioned an address for complaints, but this was probably just a police office. Upon any complaint, the officers would gladly file a case and incarcerate the complainer. He remembered his former colleague who dared to flood the city’s officials with complaints. He was a crafty lad, set on a road to success. His business model was simple. Sell them salted goods. Make them thirsty. Sell them sugary drinks. An impressive stock of pickled items balanced on his table. At first, people eagerly ordered thick slabs of rye bread, stuffed with a smattering of cold cuts, pickles, and sauce. To wash it all down, one couldn’t resist ordering a drink. As his beverages were overly sweet, only the hardiest stomachs returned. What started as a constant flood of customers slowed to a mere trickle. Thereafter, he would continue to stand erect behind his counter. Barely able to see over his towers of delicacies, he focused on any potential passerby. At first, he tried to entice them. Praising the outstanding quality of his offerings. As people hastened their pace to escape the barrage of praises, he resorted to hurling the harshest insults. It wasn’t long before pedestrians altered their paths. He realized quickly that he needed to block the pavement, guiding the flow of potential customers. A broad pavement narrowed to a small footpath between junk of all sorts. Above the labyrinth, he installed makeshift pieces of driftwood, brightly colored, obnoxiously crude. Dozens of times, the council warned him. First, they entreated him to understand. They spoke of fire hazards and insults to the beauty of the streetscape. Nothing helped. One day, two brutes lifted his stall and sent it crashing to the floor. It was an 'official removal'. Ever since, not a day passed on which the former colleague did not post an elegy, compiled of remorse, complaints, and threats. It did not help.

Only a few of the neighbors still hoped for help from the council. They spoke of goodwill– “Oh yes, finally, finally the wealth of the city arrives at our door-steps”, “no longer are they only rushin through, rushin through as they did all them years back”, “they will stay, even want to move here, once that filthy hole out there is gonna be fixed”. They spoke of malicious intent. “No fixin is happening here, can’t you see?”, “They are telling us to apply for resettlement”, “they think that it does not matter where them rats are going to be sent”. “Just wait, wait until they send the guys with the flutes”. “Thinking they can daze us into them dreams, dreams of another life, somewhere more pretty”. “Hell. I am not gonna leave”, “let’s arm ourselves”. Setting up a fort, that is what they wanted. Some started to riddle their doors with glass shards. Others repurposed the barbed wire they used to decorate the neighborhood’s last remaining bank with. Another group attempted to mimic the construction workers. A few meters from the gaping abyss, they started to smack their own holes into the ground. The pathetic chisels they used broke after an afternoon of obstinate hammering. They tried to assemble a band of marauders that was to scare the invaders off. No one joined though. One myopic neighbor whacked some nails through his frail broom and posted himself on one of the borough’s entries. The workers thought he was a sales clerk. The defenses were hopeless. Absent-minded, some neighbors handed themselves over to the promises. One day, a beaten bus arrived and carted off the few ones willing to leave for Nowhere. A majority remained. Some tied themselves to their few belongings. Others embarked on a hunger strike. But as they were always hungry, there was nothing striking about the occurrence. Our juice seller remained erect on his island. He was running out of water. He was running out of expired fruit. Nonetheless, he wanted to remain. To protocol. One day, people would realize how the city regarded all of us as sewage. How they tried to turn this neighborhood into a water treatment facility. How they tried to set a precedent. To move borders as they desired. To erase boroughs, relocate them or let them disappear.

—

The morning crawled through the cracks beneath the window. She was once known– the borough’s stellar light. The beauty of her words would entreat upon any rigidity. She would loosen cramps. Blood flowed again through calcified vessels when she released her syllables. Some claimed life itself passed through her veins: an enigma they accepted without question. She never explained– only remarked on how colors caressed her, how the damp summer whispered of impending bloom. Gradually, the slight column of light thickened into a luminous shard. It cut through the crack until the gap seemed to widen, giving rise to a dawn she did not want. Usually, she would gather the directionless. Have them flock to her window. Once a significant number had arrived, she left her room. Together, they wandered the illicit alleys. Under her dominion, a stream of rabble transformed into a mosaic of an unknown sort—indecipherable, yet astonishing. Directionless, they marched. Occasionally, she intoned a hymn, but these stanzas were not for delight. It would be misleading to speak of beauty, she thought. Ominously, it was time itself that she expressed. That was what drew all of them to her. Finally, their time had come, they thought—as if they could possess it without being possessed by its departure. These aimless promenades, fostered an appreciation for the absence of direction, for the dim light of remembrance. By now, a hazy cloud consumed her tiny room. Everything was illuminated, yet nothing could be deciphered. She didn't desire the clarity of vision. Since the demolition began, she had vanished. The usual suspects still gathered below her windowsill, pleading for her to come, to delight them with her mere presence. Where do you go when there is nowhere left? They pleaded for her to listen, to guide them. Perhaps they didn't understand the absence of direction she embodied. Was there something to understand? They just marched, until their feet tired and their minds were adrift with the weight of existence.

A thick cloud engulfed the room upstairs. It was empty. Empty, as it had always been. Had the neighbors forgotten they chased a presence that never was? That never existed, except in their interstices. An ominous feeling let them know that, somehow, they belonged. That some viscous matter glued them together. Where one's mind ended, another began. And another. In these days of great commotion, the rabble would still assemble. They waited where they always had until there were enough of them. Enough to not fear the club and the gun. But something had changed after all. The sign that used to inform them, indicating that now they should embark on their sojourn, was absent. Somehow, they were incapable of deciphering it. And thus, they let themselves down. They lowered themselves to the ground. Littered the streets. Like rubble. For the large-scale operation which ground stone to dust, this was just another confirmation. Scum had to be removed. How else would you ventilate the city? How else could you invite the wind of progress, if it was obstructed by all these useless scoundrels? After a morning of drilling, the workers wiped grease from their pallid faces. Constantly peering into a hole. Their eyes: little red raisins.

From their feasting tent, they dimly observed the gathering of lost souls. “What do they do to earn a living?”, “I rise and drudge, I eat dust, and to get it out of my system, I drink, I drink that dust away”. “But these scoundrels are useless. They don't even bother putting on a show”. “They don't even care to display some crafty demeanor”, “they just sit there and wait, wait until their bottoms are cooked on that pavement”. “I'm going to pick one of them, pick one like those berries in the park. Pick and squish. As my mother used to say”. After talking himself into a tiny frenzy, one of the workers wandered off, intent on causing harm. The bottle, always a good friend of his, was too comforting a company today. Unable to distinguish his target, he mistakenly punched a pole. After examining the damaged piece of wood and covering it in abuse, he returned. “I gave it good; that puny fellow was too slender and just shattered into shards”. Some of his colleagues had to guide him towards the first aid department, a sizable splinter protruded from his fist. There was nothing remarkable about the incident.

This divide remained firm– one side was too drunk to notice, the other too sober to attempt a leap of camaraderie. Meanwhile, with the guiding light gone, the neighbors formed a committee. That night, they planned to descend into the ever-expanding chasm. Perhaps, if they understood what was causing such upheaval, they could respond appropriately. It took all day to decide. Being downtrodden, they were indifferent to causation. Often, their efforts had been met with varied reactions. They all recognized the lack of a reliable link between their actions and the frequent reprisals they faced. Why bother understanding when the outcome seemed predetermined? Why try to disrupt the machinery when it would simply be rebuilt? Constantly maintained by these workers or replaced by others if these chose to depart. They couldn't draft a statement.

No decision was made. By now, the dark hole was a harrowing presence. It seemed to soil the entire borough. At night, a chilled breeze chased the humid heat of the day. The abyss expelled gusty drafts, it drew them to its edge. Nothing could be discerned. Deep below, construction persisted. By day, workers barred entry, but at night nothing deterred them. Given the general disregard for the neighbors, only a laughably fragile strip of plastic kept them from the precipice. Some morose children perched on the unstable brink, their skinny legs swaying above the void. What was their fate? Each day, the void crept closer to their homes. Admittedly, the view was unique: towering buildings overlooking the vast expanse, a picturesque scene to mark the dawn of oblivion. But being overlooked was no longer a threat to them. Now, a faint hint of recollection was all they sought. It had happened before, somewhere. Now they just needed to mobilize. Question the neighbors, perhaps consult the juice seller. Has he found an escape from the inevitable? They wanted him on their side, sharing in their perplexity, joining their feeble attempts to unpick an incomprehensible bind. They'd approach him tomorrow. Some were impatient, unwilling to wait, seeing the evening as a gateway to a more savvy realm. Many favored the cloak of night, moving unseen, avoiding casting shadows.

Only a very few remembered the esoteric crafts of their ancestors. What remained was an eclectic montage of remnants. Like the abstrusely vulgar ads that sought to sell them everything, from antibodies to zealotry, they randomly assembled a response. Unfortunately, the elders were the most resigned. Tragically, the wisest among them were the most defeated. The elders had seen more than they could bear. Now the old folk had to hide behind the grey curtain of myopia. Some of them were treasure chests, compiled of the most astonishing paraphernalia. The question was merely how to tap into their remaining secretions. The children were particularly good at that. Tying themselves to their sclerotic legs, they would entreat them to narrate. To tell them of their own childhood. At times, their valves opened, releasing geysers of memory. They eventually had to be stopped, to not expend themselves. Others had dried out. The elder’s outpost was one of the last remaining coffeeshops. Relatives, friends, would drop them off. Leaving a coin, or two, in their pockets, they set out on their days of drudgery, returning to pick them up by nightfall. Far from being derelict fragments of an unknown past, they were revered. But ever since this new construction began, their demeanor had soured. Friendly chatter turned into a foreboding whisper. Somehow, their fragile stability had cracked and gave rise to loose hysteria. People stopped dropping off their children, they were frightened enough. The once-grand oratory had become a geriatric refuge. The owner of the coffeeshop tried his best to ail their sore souls, but nothing helped. An unruly atmosphere started to engulf them all. The wise ones were frightened, this was a foreboding sign.

In the morning, the juice seller was nowhere to be found. That was the first day of his absence. “His ship must have capsized” a neighbor yelled from an adjacent window. “How are we to tell? That damn hole changes shape by the minute”, someone answered from afar. An investigation started. Decorated with a notebook and a flashlight, a few neighbors sought to find him. “They have taken him. I’m sure. He was the only one that watched them. Day and night”, yelled one of the witnesses. Spittle foamed around her mouth, her eyes protruded violently: “We must do something, our only defense has fallen”. Her voice started to rattle: “Where is he-e? Ev-ery decrepit day, he stood there. Mounted be-hind his shitty shack. Asking for no- no-thing but to ke-ep on. They have taken it all. Even the ground on which he was standing”. “That obnoxious stench, it is suffocating me”, tying some rags around her mouth and nose, she stomped off.

Soon, there were no more witnesses to question. Since the perpetrator was already identified, there was no need to look for suspects. As fast as they had bandied together, they dispersed. Eventually, they decided, they needed to storm the tent. Maybe they held him captive. Unperturbed, the construction team continued with its obstinate ritual. Eating, drinking, drilling. Their tent throned next to the cavity. A fiendish circus without an audience. Some neighbors turned to open hostility. They tossed their junk into the hole. From the windows, a small team wedged furniture into the toothless mouth below. A shining cupboard of birch was too large. Trying to thrust it through the window, it got stuck. In a shared effort, they lunged against it, covering it in punches and shoves. Eventually, it fell, taking the windowsill with it.

Silence followed.