My personal bridge
My personal bridge reflects (and offers a reflection) upon that unusual short-circuit beginning in the lively community of Turkish fishermen, on the bridge’s parapets, ready to shred shrimps with mussel valves for hours, and ending with the restaurants under the bridge, crowded with tourists sitting at their tables, final receivers of the work done by a packed and swinging formation of fishing canes.
If the bridge crumbles, then it becomes a raft
There are friendly bridges, who join distances, and distancing bridges, who enhance neglecting; there are bridges along whose arrow the gap between continent and island, city and forest, centre and periphery, may very well be bridged; bridges like the Galata, in Istanbul, with its informal community of hundreds of fishermen: should it crumble, it would shatter into hundreds of rafts, breaking the oneness of the surviving company and strewing the waters below with floating shareholders.
The industriousness of the bridge is forever set in iron by the preparation of the baits and the symbolic grafting of only one stool tries to stabilize the bridge’s economy by pulling over in it, as if divinely, a sitting for couples of fishermen.