Dark Lotus Land
September 30, 2007
It was easier for the man to see the city on foot. He got his exercise and threaded his way through the hustle and flow of the city. There is no better way to connect. Halifax harbour was vivid and almost regal in today’s presentation. Tourists could expect no more. The postcard pictures matched the sky and the temperature was perfect. It was unseasonably sunny bright and flags on mizzenmasts flew perfectly as an optimum wind velocity rifled the fabric. The man sought high ground on Citadel Hill as instinct dictated. The sunken fortress’s surrounding green lawns fell away from the crest of the hill past the white wooden clock tower and into the streets below. Young Sunday floppers dotted the hill in groups of two or three. He decided on a course. He would run west to the MacDonald Bridge and cross the harbour to the Dartmouth side. He wasn’t sure if he liked heights or he was afraid of them. What better way to find out than to cross the thing on foot? He’d done it before and, whatever the phobias, it was a small thrill. Past the Halifax Armory and thoughts of the heaviness of foreign conflict and into the quiet of one of the city’s transitional neighbourhoods he was almost there. A few more blocks and cranking a hard right he was soon on the foot of the bridge. Steady traffic helped maintain the sense of disorientation that hits you when you step out onto a large metal suspension bridge that heads to a 49-metre peak above the white-capped sea. Locals call it “the Old Bridge” and that inspired the man to feel more of a connection to reality. This is what makes an old wooden roller coaster more fun. There is an illusion that safety may somehow be compromised. The numbers must indicate that somehow. Phillip Pratley designed the bridge in 1955 and that is why it resembles Vancouver’s Lion’s Gate Bridge. Same guy. Same ideas. He began immediately to rise up over the gray battle ready minesweepers at the HMC Dockyard and was soon at the summit of the bridge’s arc. He watched his feet as they treaded the pebbly grip surface of the walkway. It was the same colour as the warships below. The water was visible through a gap to his left that separated the roadway from the walkway. This magnified the distance to the surface of the water. He thought what all people think at that point. Could I live if I fell? Is 150 feet too high? Do you try to point your toes and enter like a knife? No. Femurs driven up into the lungs. Definitely. Do you curl up into a cannonball? No. Knees into face...out cold. As he calculated his chances of survival on his way down the longer descent of the south side he passed a pedestrian coming the other way. Probably in his early twenties and wearing a camouflage hoodie, ipod buds and aviator sunglasses the man smiled in no particular direction and trucked slowly up the walkway.
The man continued on to where the bridge touched down and turned back to retrace his steps. At the crest of the bridge he came up behind the pedestrian. He noticed the bottle of Molson export dangling from between the fingers of his right hand and as he drew up beside he could hear him singing into the strong wind. The ear buds were blasting and the pedestrian would have had no idea anyone was nearby so ... he felt free to sing full blast. On a gorgeous day with his lungs full of fresh air and sauntering through the sky over the sparkling ocean the pedestrian bellowed these words. “Shoot me! C'mon. Blow a hole in my lung. I'll lick out the hole when I swallow my tongue”. Violent J and Dark Lotus. We all run alone for different reasons. Maybe the energy is more important than the message.
The man continued to run past and kept his expectations in check. As he left the pedestrian far behind his daydreams continued to run wild now fueled by the deeds of the Insane Clown Posse.
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