Bridge Ices Before Road
Beware the Ides of March, they say. And I know why: March is a long road that seems to go nowhere. 31 days. “I am 32 flavors and then some,” sings Ani Difranco. I can’t bear it; this barren month between winter and spring. A friend wrote me and said “I feel like the cold and wind has become a prison.” I think about Scott Hutchison, the lead singer of the band Frightened Rabbit, who died in May last year of suicide. His telling song “Late March, Death March” says it all:
Folded arms clutch on his side
The bridge is out and the river is high
This is a march death march, march death march
Yeah, there isn't a God, so I save my breath
Pray silence for the road ahead
And this march death march, march death march
Yeah I went too far
“It’s a cold rain. It’s a hard rain. Like the kind you find in songs.” Ani Difranco again.
There was a time when I saw road signs and found deeper meaning in them. There was a time when I thought I saw dead people crossing the highway in the dark of night. There was a time when I thought the phones were tapped. A time when I thought that I could use my Star Tac phone to call God. Didn’t even worry about the roaming charges. Walking through my neighborhood at night and trying to reach beyond the skies with my messages. What was I trying to say? What did I expect to get back?
Watching TV and reading between the lines to find hidden messages. Everything on the kitchen counters was a still life. Still life. I couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t stop talking. Couldn’t stop thinking, or the world would end. But it didn’t. The world kept on turning. I opened my eyes and everyone was still there.
A few months later I wrote a one Act play I called “Bridges.” It was about two strangers walking around an art gallery and finishing each other’s thoughts about the pieces. Trying to form a bridge of thought between the two of them as they experienced the beauty before them. Here is the very much abridged version of “Bridges.”
Bridges
[Two people, a man followed by a woman, enter through revolving doors to the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. They both walk to the Impressionist section. They both stop at different paintings, separated by a wall.]
HE
If only this were real, if only I could step inside this canvas and be in a different world. I could close my eyes and be transported into a place where jobs don’t matter and you are standing on a Japanese footbridge over pink water lilies. The bridge has no end and no beginning, and so you have nowhere to go. Standing solitary, you wait.
[The spotlight focuses now on the woman sitting on a bench in front of a painting.]
SHE
Standing solitary, you wait. You wait for the colors to make sense on the canvas as your brain swirls them together. What you see is art. What you feel is art. You understand its language like you understand your own. You want to find a way to get into the painting, because your vision takes you into a different dimension. You see the painting as an escape.
HE
You see the painting as an escape, but from what? Your life is ordinary and exists only on one plane. You ache to fly into something so unreal in its beauty, but all you see are bridges, meant to be crossed.
SHE
All you see are bridges, meant to be crossed. So you take a dive into the scene to see how it feels. You feel yourself rising off of the bench and into Edgar Degas’ Ballet Scene. You stretch and feel your arms making bridges and your body continues to make bridges to itself, always connecting one thing to another. You want to walk across yourself to see where you end up.
HE
You want to walk across yourself to see where you end up. It is a small, blue bridge, but it can take you anywhere. Where would you like to go?
SHE
Where would you like to go? You make shapes with your body to communicate to others. You move from position to position to tell a story, but you don’t know the ending, you just dance.
HE
You don’t know the ending, you just cross the bridge. You see your reflection in the water below to see who you really are in such a pure mirror. Your reflected self is trapped in the painting and it is up to you to free it.
SHE
Your reflected self is trapped in the painting and it is up to you to free it.
[She gets up from the bench and walks around the wall, while at the same time, the man walks around to the other side of the wall to see the painting that the woman saw. They miss each other by a few seconds.]
SHE
You can feel the wood on your hands, leaning against the railing. You can smell the fragrance of the water lilies as they float on by. You are transported to a different time and place, where stillness and quiet prevail and there is no one else around.
HE
You are transported to a different time and place, where stillness and quiet prevail and there is no one else around. The dancers dance in a timeless world. Their arms reach out to you to come and join the dance. They are making a bridge for you to come join them.
SHE
They are making a bridge for you to come join them. You can hear the stillness of the water as it invites you to walk across it. What will you learn from this bridge? What will the water lilies tell you about life? Take each day, one step at a time, and you will learn.
What have I learned about bridges and their signs? On all my various road trips and travels I keep remembering this warning: Bridge Ices Before Road. What does that mean? I think it means that when you are barreling down the road in the bleak mid-winter at 70 mph, trying to break through the prison of cold and wind and you come to a bridge, you need to slow down. The road may not be icy, but the bridge, suspended in air, with water below, may be deadly. Late March, Death March. Beware those Ides. But spring is coming. Hold on to that.