bridge of now

Nixon Sixx, from a September shoot near Berkeley. This peninsula, a metaphorical bridge from past to future, with each chasing the others tail. Here, those who came before failed, and discarded the pieces. Most walk around, avoid this place. A few create something new from the relics of that past, something the old ones would not understand, would reject, as we have rejected them and their ways. Here, like Nietzsche, we watch the past die, watch it rise from the ashes as something new. What some fear, we encourage. What they don't know might hurt them. Here, among dark and light passageways, we walk, we discover, we create. She wears the flexibility of the edge, and of nothingness.

One who seemed so innocent told me of this place, several years ago. Now, the years mean nothing. Her innocence was false, a disguise, a precurser. The next ones, the silent one, and the dark one, and the yet unknown one, they file through this place without time, leaving only memories, and images.