June 15th, 2001

Dear Brooklyn Bridge,

All this time I thought maybe I was speaking with you or maybe that you knew who was speaking to me. I looked to you for signs, but always you stood rigid and straight. I suppose you moved, in increments, in ways I could not detect. The thing of it is, when I was young, when I saw my first mountain, I was not impressed. It seemed to me like an image and not a thing at all. My mother said that I should be in awe and I confessed that I did not know what that was. She said that I should approach the mountain, put my hands upon it, then climb it, even reaching the top; all until I understood what awe was. And she was right. It was Hunter Mountain; not far from you, Bridge.

I have climbed that mountain three times in my life, and I will climb it again if whatever makes us gives me time. You though, you my mother thought was not much to pay attention to. She saw commerce in you, but I do not think that she saw far in time when you will stand despite that nothing will cross you anymore. You will stand. Of course, I have believed that of many things including myself, only to be proven wrong; for all things must pass. And I know you will not stand forever. Nothing will. But I suppose that rather than climb mountains, I should like to climb you, Brooklyn Bridge. To stand atop you must be amazing. Breathless. I wonder how far I could see atop you.

I think, though, that I have been mistaken about you or things speaking to me and that my history has been playing games with me in my dreams. I believe I found Beatrice. And she is just an old memory, and not the thing I thought she might be. That’s okay by me. It probably means I’m not crazy. Regardless, I wanted you to know that I do stand in awe of you, and that I never had to scale you—even touch you—to know it.

Thank you mighty bridge,

Joe

Read the whole thread: The Hunger Engine

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