New Russian Chronicles
Surviving monotaxocausofilia

The Bridge trilogy, 2

Another bridge I like, one click and a half away from the first.

This is a very nice drawbridge. Being a drawbridge is important,  it quenches all my childlish enthusiasm for big, technical things at work. Watching it work is something banal for the part of my brain where I store technical knowledge, but it is a real kick for my child-at-heart.

On top of that, if you REALLY can’t wait the 5 minutes this bridge stays up to get to the bakery on the other side (you fat fucker),  it’s got a very nice arching bridge beside it, from where the pic is taken. It’s a very nice place, I go there many lazy, sunny sundays, just to blend in the constant stream of couples, families and people.

Look, it's up! A boat will pass underneath!

This picture was taken just hours before hell broke loose, unnanounced.

‘But that one night, people just came. All kinds of stories, after, how it happened. Pissing down rain, too. No body’s idea of riot weather.’

Yamazaki imagined the two spans of the deserted bridge in the downpour, the crowds accumulating. He watched as they climbed the wire fences, the barricades, in such numbers that the chain link twisted, fell. They had climbed the towers, then, more than thirty falling to their deaths. But when the dawn came, survivors clung there, news helicopters circling them in the gray light like patient dragonflies. He had seen this many times, watching the tapes in Osaka. But Skinner had been there.

‘Maybe a thousand people, this end. Another thousand in Oakland. And we just started running. Cops falling back, and what were they protecting, anyway? Mainly the crowd-orders they had, keep people from getting together in the street. They had their choppers up in the rain, shining lights on us. Just made it easier. I had this pair of pointy boots on. Ran up to that ‘link, it was maybe fifteen feet tall. Just kicked my toes in there and started climbing. Climb a fence like that easy, boots got a point. Up, man, I was up that thing like I was flying. Coils of razor at the top, but people behind me were pushing up anything; hunks of two-by-four, coats, sleeping-bags. To lay across the wire. And I felt like . . . weightless . . .’

Excerpt from “Virtual Light”, by Willian Gibson.

Not listening to it, but it is obligatory to write the soundtrack of the moment I took that picture: 
Blur – Think Tank


Una respuesta to “The Bridge trilogy, 2”

  1. […] Mon pétit pont bien aimé, près de chez moi sur le canal de St. Martin, et referencié dans cet article. […]


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