Welcome to the Bridge.

Godamn he is...and Godamned he will be....

He gave up a life of controlled demolition for an easy life climbing bridges.

And that's be a silly sentence.

And he is here, always.

But in order to march further, he has had to step closer to the edge,
test his boundaries, and...

Terrified?

Sure.

No one has guided him,
or taught him how he should climb,
this liquid steel, undulating beast.

They just gave him the gear,
and set him out on his own.

His first climb up the bents was solo.
He was tested.
His first climb up the cable was solo.
He was tested.

They try to weed you out before you even tie in.

That is why they tested him to climb the outside first.

On the outside you can always look down,
and gauge or quantify,
the long way down.

Then,
if you show no fear,
they take you up through the bents.

Pitch Black.
Only the light on the hard hat,
to guide you up or down,
through brittle steel.

It is an unforgiving place.

Some days,
just to get to the climb,
requires scaling a thirty-foot ladder resting in a WWII landing craft at steady throttle,
pinned against the caisson.

Wait for the waves,
count them,
think you know what's coming next,
and then just go.

Up-ity, up.

It is pure insanity.

And he is home.

There are "Rescue Boats" in the water if you go over the side.
But they aren't there for rescue.
They are there for recovery.

There is a reason why the yard, the staging area is like Heller's "Catch 22"
The compound is lawless, and yet governed by a code that isn't.

It is a dropping off point, the pier,
where a boat ride out to hell is the best part of you day.

The sunrise is amazing.

And it is a fucking crazy thing,
to climb aboard one of the barges, landing crafts, PT boats,
and head out across the black water.

This alone should be enough.

But they climb and scale, and dangle and dance.

There are no sane souls here.

And he is home.

Am I Here?

And he is locked.
Locked and loaded.
He comes home,
crawls out and thru the blue, gray  falling fog of clouded rainy sunset and stumbles in,
wrestles keys into faded brass slots of doors that are not his,
leans in and studies the pattern of which way is up,
and which way is down.

Runs his fingers across the edge,
in the fading dark that awaits and will come,
slides the jagged metal into its place,
tumblers connect, fall, click,
knobs turn
doors open.

And he enters the dark,
and is home.

Purrfect.

But lets go back.

The ride home out across Todd's Farm is alight with white,
in the fog,
and against the gray and black sky that bears down on the island up from the south,
tides rise over bulk heads and roads begin to wash out.

A storm is coming,
A-and,

The ibis's have returned.
And the heavy diesel rumble sets them to flight.
Or maybe it's the storm coming in?
It's just timing and his clock has been off as of late.
But the flock of white birds alight
and with the window down,
over the rumble of his heavy broke engine,
he can hear the flap and stroke of wings,
as beautiful, delicate things, take flight and rise.
Three birds ride close to his open window,
purrfect timing and skill and grace.
He could reach out his window and touch their wings.
This is how close they are,
as close as he is to such beauty.

Rise.

They follow him for a spell.
Chase and dart and draft the truck as he makes his way
out onto the island.
For a moment, it seems as if the white gathering of birds in the fog and the gray,
are guiding him home.

Strange,
delicate,
angels.

Strange,
delicate,
angels.

A-and he returns home.
Guided and with purpose,
into the dark and the gray and the blue.

"Does anyone see all this?"

He leans deep into his soul,
like cheetahs wild and in love.

"Does anyone hear me?"

He presses his ear against the screen of his tiny kitchen window,
and listens.
Listens to the never ending want and scream of human ache that is so easily resolved,
listens to the ebb and flow of the water that is his soul.

"What have I done?"

And he walks out to the waters edge,
plants himself upon the end of the pier,
unlaces his heavy boots,
removes his two pairs of holey socks,
doubled up for warmth,
rolls up his double lined heavy Carhartts above the knees,
takes a deep breath,
and dips his scared feet,
into the cold,
black, glorious water.

"I am here."

Strange,
delicate,
angel.

“She had a weakness for writers…and I was never that good to words anyway…”

http://youtu.be/_r4Ymyeuw_E

Welcome my love to another spin.  This Universe, I, WE, need another one, one another.  We keep it all spinning, fix and repair rusty and antiquated machinations when all hope seems lost.  We trudge through deep snow and springs mud, and thick summers foreign fields.  It is what we do.  It ain’t easy. But Gosh Darn it, it is what we do.

I have kept, tried to keep, this cold inside me, keep you from the terror of the fridged  evil wind that rolls in off the sound out back that freezes pipes and stalls our truck and holds her in place when she just wants to run, warm up and go…run…to a place where scared little old men boys with great heavy minds and broken hands can sit and rest under blankets of orange and yellow and umber leaves, and not fear the wind, but just listen to its song through the branches strong, that sway and groan, and sometimes ache, but never topple.

We cannot be blown over.

We bend.

We creak.
We groan.

                

And open arms to the shit heavy wind, the maelstrom, that beats us again,

And again

And again,

And we lean in.

What else can we do?

Why?

I know why and so do you,

But we will never speak of it.

What a great gift.

It’s cold here in our lighthouse tonight.

A cold that is not fair or understandable,

But a cold that is ours to hold and embrace, and make our own.

It’s so stoopid fucking cold.

And just when you think it might get better,

The wind rises up, changes direction,

And tears in from the south,

And makes the cold even colder.

The even ender edge of the world.

Our even ender edge of the world.

And that is just nicey nice. 

It is fifty-eight degrees in our lighthouse

And the heat is going full blast.

But it does not
 seem to make a difference anyway.

The ice has taken over our cove, our little bay.

It is cold here without you.

But the idea of you keeps me warm.

As I am writing this,

I keep getting up and checking on the venison stew,

That slowly cooks and simmers in our silly little kitchen.

The heat from the stove keeps the alcove warm.
If you open the window just enough,
you can hear the ice crackle on the black water
as it fights to form out back
between the struggle of the tide and wind.

And as I stand and stir the game,

The wind out back howls,

And screams,

And beats against our windows and door.

It seems to want in.

But what the fuck here inside is so much better,

That it wants to beat down our walls,
blow through and in,
and sit upon our sofa and make itself at home?

                     

Let’s ask the wind and cold to leave us alone for a while.

We don’t need the wind and cold
and the Universe,
to tell us it is time to snuggle up,

Curl together,

Embrace.
We don’t need the wind and cold
and the Universe,
to nudge us together.

Please,

Let’s ask the wind and cold,
and the Universe,
to leave us alone for a while.