Snipes and Suicide

I hadn't planned on jumping from that railroad bridge in Maumee, Ohio. In, fact, I hadn't planned anything, but she drew me in like a Disney animator. As bridges go, she was pretty non-descript; not old, but not new; no ancient voice calling to me. She bore her rust and faded paint like bat guano on a cave wall, or perhaps like the papier mache concrete of a Gaudi building. But still, despite the layers of deterioration she wore, she was all steel; steeled against the wind and the water, and unyielding; steeled against uselessness and obscurity. She appeared as a respite from the erector set structures of the Midwest; the mushroom power towers with their sagging electric valances, the field sprinklers, and the pumpkin-topped silos of unknown farms. "Come and jump", she said, as I sped down the interstate, and I swallowed her invitation like the light trickle of blood from a long awaited kiss. I descended and scampered until at last, I found myself standing upon her, in her really. I could feel her strength, long obsolete, scurry up my leg like a scorpion, but she creaked and groaned and swayed with the ghosts of dreams long faded, and still unborn. A bridge, no matter how strong, has to have a little give, a little flexibility, to bend to the burden of hard work and eternity, and I could feel her dance to the music of the river below.

The Maumee flowed beneath her, caressed her hips like first love. Her water was rusty, too. She and the bridge shared the same color, the rusty orange of wisdom, not deterioration. Her waters seemed warm and inviting, like motor oil, and she pleaded with me to bathe and to lubricate. She flowed slow and easy from wherever to wherever, washing and smoothing and helping like a grandmother. Oh, she beckoned me allright. She danced and swirled and licked my thighs like a pole dancer, and I watched and listened. I closed my eyes, stood in my own skin, and fell.

The river and the bridge are separate, but are one thing. They stand in each other, are clean, and are as right as rain.

Time is what we get, be it short or long. Life is what we make.

Which brings me to the snipe, a magic and elusive bird. It is perfect black, the black of invisibility. It only emerges on the moonless nights. Darkness and speed make it nearly impossible to detect, but that has not stopped myriads of children from hunting it. It dwells in ditches and washes. One leg is shorter than the other, enabling the snipe to run like light along the edges of gullies. It has yellow eyes, the color of caution, and yes, dear reader, caution is warranted. This fanged bird is indeed dangerous like a dinosaur. Hunting the snipe requires great courage, armed only with a stick, a flashlight and a burlap sack. The hunt is fearful, yet filled with the possibility of capturing the most mythic bird of all; fear mixed with wonder, standing in each others space. Many have sought the snipe. Few have even seen it. Fewer still are those that have captured it; a cloaked and secret few, unrevealed to the masses. But all who have sought the snipe share the same imprint; the fear of wet underwear joined with the exhilaration of dangerous seeking.

I have just started a new journey, a spirit quest filled with fear and exhilaration, ease and mirth and wet underwear. The crows have flown 2000 miles to join me. The snake has also taken my journey; even the weasel. I have sought wisdom in the magic cards and cherished their revelations. I have discovered that lavender oil is the ultimate vaginal healer. I have worshipped the goddess and plundered with pirates. I have found the love of children, both the small and large varieties. I have begun to discover my earth and fire and water and wind. The herons lead me on my path and I have played with the dolphin. I am balancing my chi. I have learned more things than I will ever realize. I am the bridge and the river, and I stand in who I am. I will continue to hunt the snipe