The Bridge

I have been debating about posting this. It was a short write I made myself do because nothing I am working on or want to write has any real brevity to it. Indigo Bridge Bookstore is across from Ivanna Cone where I have been working away my evenings. It is on the south side of the building and catches wonderfully brilliant sunsets, even if the backdrop is just the old trainyard. The "O" Street Bridge arcs over the tracks and I decided to write this. All in all, I am not displeased, but it is just... frustratingly simple. The themes it picks up (domestic-foreign is the strongest, but also some xenophobia and provinicialism--a term I do not use derisively) are nice touches, but they don't go anywhere that particularly interests me.

Over the past few days, it has come to my attention that Mr Brendan McCauley and Mr David(e) Mitelman read "Philosophy that Bakes Bread." I want to send a pleasant greeting and express my appreciation for their time and attention. I look forward to hearing more about Brendan's music tapes label, presently going by Grapes Tapes (Is there an apostrophe in there?) which I will probably link to on here or from the tumblr. You can find David--in Brazil, he was warmly referred to by the Brazilian adaptation Davide (Day-vid-gee), hence the parenthetical "e"--working away at Flat Cap Publishing, with its enviable photographs.

Without further ado, here is The Bridge.

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The Bridge – Experimental Write
22 February 2010

It is strange to see the bridge from here. This angle, it has its own quirks. It extends over the tracks and tucks itself behind that far hill. You might think it goes on and on behind that hill, never again touching down. In a way, that is true.
Over the hill, in the distance, that is the familiar side. I am, you might say, out of my depth here. The bridge connects two, shall we say, distinct places, as bridges are wont to do. I have crossed bridges over streams, railways, sidewalks, roads. An acquaintance has a rather eloquent bridge between the two halves of his home, arching pleasantly over an internal courtyard. I have seen photographs depicting bridges between arboreal platforms so that the wildlife below might be observed undisturbed.
Having crossed the bridge, viewing it just so, the bridge does not appear all that different from any other. Long, swirling tendrils of iron decorate the pillars that hold it up and its balustrades on either side—though the opposite side, on the Northernly length, I obviously cannot see from here. The style may have come off of as curious when it was made, but now it has that touch of rust and wear that adorns all ironwork from that era. The pillars are composed of terra cotta, richly red in the later light of the day, and its long, vertical crevices are deeply shadowed. It bears that mystique of shadow places and unknown language; of unrevealed secrets.
Veil. Reveal. Unrevealed. The Greek for truth is alethia. A denotes the opposite of lethia, which means to cover or conceal. How strange a word. Is it so often the case that the truth is secreted away, that it needs uncovering? Generally, I have found the truth to be out in the open and that we tend to hide it from ourselves. We are sly in our efforts of obfuscation.
I have always lived near the bridge. I was born not far from its Eastern node. You can discover a hospital nearby, not more than a mile, though it has been remodeled once or twice since I came into it. My mother's home was further away, but planted in a hillock that put the bridge at a wonderful view that belied its distance. It is one of my oldest memories. How strange, that it looks so similar and so unusual from this reversed vantage. I took pleasure in seeing it, arching subtly away from all those comfortable neighborhoods of my youth.
Now, long since the close of my youth, I was ashamed to realize that I had not crossed it once. My childhood comrades failed to coax such adventures out of one another. I never found a lover to follow over it. No family members discovered affordable homes on its far edge, then asked for houseguests and extra hands for moving. It would have been wise to let sleeping dogs lie, I suppose, as one is wont to do.
I have met the stray occupants of that far city. They have that air of foreignness about them, that smell that one cannot wash out. They count to three differently on their hands. They have a slight inflection when a “g” precedes a consonant; an intonation that hints of an older people and their older ways. It was one such individual, having lost his way after a long debauch had traversed the bridge and made his way to a bookstore I frequent. I found him there, perusing titles that made him squint. His concentration was broken from the aftereffects of drink, but he could not escape his fascination with this novel place.
I bought him coffee and provided him an aspirin. He was younger than I would have liked, still touched with that unhindered extravagance with which young people speak. Then again, we think of ourselves as so much more matured, which comes with its own hindrances. I took pleasure in his recollection of the night before, which led to tales of other nights and other friends. We spoke at length and happily. With the swift approach of night, though, he decided he ought to leave, which he did with profound speed. I wished him adieu and shared some means by which he could contact me, but I felt it went unheeded.
The seed of that visit grew, its taproot gnawing deeper and deeper into my thoughts until I could not escape the notion. I have learned that the bridge has the air of the inevitable about it, the inescapable. It consumed me, and I am the worse for it. From the Southern side of the bridge I can see something different about secrets, about the things we keep hidden.
Even in this warm place, I cannot help but feel alien. I am unwelcome here, shrewdly watched by passersby and something in their eyes, in the curve of their lip, the glint of teeth that tells me I should never have come.
You may here assume I have misspoken, but perhaps it is more that I intentionally failed to reveal. You see, I came and left once before. I came to the far side and felt the stare of strangers, smelled their noisome musk, listened for that long-lived inflection on words with a “g” placed just so. I became fearful, I am loathe to admit, but it shook me severely. And I fled over the bridge, back to a familiar place and a time and people who might recognize me and I them.
That seed though, having given it the chance, germinated in my internal soil. Not long after my disruptive sojourn I noticed it about me. The smell, the sound, the sharpened edges of my lips, my teeth. Others had seen it in me first, smelled it; we are perspicacious and I could see the different looks, the long glances, the stares of children. Therefore, I arranged my subsequent departure.
From this angle, I can see those strange perturbations in the ironwork. The way its windings shift and unsettle in the long light of the day. On my crossing, I attempted that peculiar pronunciation, those other swirled sounds that have become more obvious over my brief stay. My worry, my doubts have faded somewhat with the pleasure of a drink and a smoke, as worries are wont to do. They watch me, these natives who have infected me, and wait for some subtle change.
Down the street a familiar face strolls by. I stare at him from the window. He is the young man with his stories and meanderings. He looks wayward, worn, lost. Then, he notices me and we exchange a glance, then a smile. I find strange comfort in that curling lip, that luminous, Cheshire grin.