Origins
Desire builds bridges. Gaze at the opposite shore long enough and, at some point, curiosity surfaces, even for the gods. It is the mildest form of craving. Canada was that mystery for me growing up, a sliver on the horizon across Lake St Clair that appeared and vanished depending on the weather. The most desirable are out-of-reach, aloof, unconcerned with their own appeal, let alone able to notice my pining. Ignore me, and it only intensifies. One winter, two boys tried skating across and were lost, a lesson to my young mind of not only the dangers of the ice, but of wanting to cross. At night, dim beacons shine along the opposite shore indicating what? Heartbeats? Without purpose and direction, any span is irrelevant, meaningless rivets and girders. Struck with fear, I tried to contain myself, but the gods knew this from their own compulsion to connect. The fulfillment of one desire can propel another forward, allowing it to expand until it encounters the heartache of the next chasm. I prayed, prayed for some kind of modest bridge knowing that, once fulfilled, everything could be deflated with disappointment but wanting it anyway. Aware of this dynamic, the gods commissioned valleys, rivers, lakes, all kinds of barriers, so that I might know the flavors of desire. But, as if unable to contain themselves, they also conjured random bridges, messing with the system, allowing feet, hands, lips to be planted on once distant shores, and commune, simultaneously ruining and amplifying the mystery. Of love. [Fuck them, and this utilitarian bridge, I think, as I gratefully cross toward the lights, feeling a persistent, enduring chill.]
