Sunday, March 31, 2013
Funny thing happened on my way to sunrise service this morning -- I missed both the service and the sunrise. The flesh wasn't willing and the spirit had second thoughts.
So I visited Pasadena's Suicide Bridge instead -- at a decent hour, around 11 a.m. Bridge built: 1913. Destroyed by earthquake: 1989. Resurrected: 1993.
Until the turn of this century, the mouth of the bridge featured some fantasy cottages dating back a hundred years or more, and in a delicious state of decay.
I should have captured them before they were lost and gone forever, but I didn't. The recent replicas lack soul.
Although, although, if one could find a back way, and squeeze the tractor between the railings, throw the arm out as far as it could reach and shoot blindly, if one were so imprudent as to do such a thing, it might be possible to find an original cottage, lovingly restored.
Suicide Bridge got its nickname back in the 30s. The real name is Colorado Street Bridge, and it's protected, or we're protected, by something called a "suicide-prevention guardrail" now. Judging from the height, I don't think it prevents so much as asks, "Are you sure?"
Though I missed the "He has risen," celebration today, I tossed a rose off the bridge in memory of others. Really.
I don't know what happens to the dead, but then, I don't understand the secret of seeds or the mystery of static cling. When it comes to death, the worst-case scenario has always seemed probable, but perhaps I lack imagination. Anyway, it's Easter, so here's hoping, and ...