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The Bridge
** Contains strong language and themes of mortality and violence. **
Section 1
It started here, on this bridge. A December day with the temperature falling. Away from the crowds, the shoppers, the revellers spilling out of the pub.
The cold waters of the Kelvin running beneath me: timeless, endless.
A police siren sounds as a car rolls by.
How cold is the water?
How fast could that guitar be in the river?
The notebook. Townes through the headphones.
Waiting Around to Die.
I think of the cold room. Time — all this time — so much time. Silence. Not getting that back.
My hands deep in my pockets, guarding against the cold. A cough rattling around my chest. The guitar case beside me, leaning against the bridge. I think back to last night. The drunk, stumbling up the street:
“Give me that guitar or I’ll fucking stab you, you fucking prick.”
His breath stinking of booze, a sneer across his face.
I took a hand from my pocket, checked my raw knuckles — still red.
I sighed and looked down at the river. I thought of my notebook:
“I’ve been running down this old trail,
But where I’m going is hard to tell.
If it’s true what they say,
A little luck is going to come my way.”
Some things you can’t sell. You shouldn’t sell. Much less give away.
“We’ve been living in a house on fire,
Seven miles high and getting higher.
We’ve been living in a house on fire,
Let it burn, let it burn.”
If you want to take this from me, then you better be prepared.
“You say this rain’s got to fall,
You say it don’t matter at all.”
If you want to take this from me, you better be ready to die.
Let it burn, let it burn.
I watch the water. It runs from here, down to the Clyde, out to the Firth, and then out to the sea.
Rivers going to run.
Fighters going to fight.
Singers going to sing.
Writers going to write.
Let it burn, let it burn.
My mind drifts. A siren sounds.
Section 2
I recognise that smell, antiseptic and hospital food.
I open my eyes. Blurry vision. I hear people moving. I go to lift my head, but my body is so heavy. I can hear a bleep — steady, like a drum. A sound low… was that the hum of a machine, or a keyboard?
A promise: you’re not dead yet.
I feel something in my hand. Looking down, I see a tube connected to water. Everything a blur. The lights go out, and I’m floating through darkness. I can hear something:
Shine a light
Days slipping by,
Faces been and gone,
Familiar Voices.
An old piano, played soft and tender. The world is no place for tender hearts. The world is no place for poetry and stories and hope.
And yet. And yet… Here we are:
Trying to live up to our heroes.
Trying to live up to ourselves. And falling short. Landing somewhere else.
Here.
I hear an acoustic guitar — the E string tuned down to D — playing the chord. Resistance. Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain, and sickness rises and pours from me. I hear voices — and out go the lights.
Silence. Emptiness. I opened the dictionary and it was empty. I opened my notebook and the pages were untouched. I felt the cold hand of death.
Section 3
Death is such a waste. Such an abrupt ending. You hear about things like that — someone battles with depression for years. Doctor finally gives them the all‑clear. Next day, they get hit by a bus.
Do you think Death is real, with the scythe and the black coat? Or do you think he dresses as different characters depending on who it is? Maybe he’s outsourced it. It’s just a tired voice from one of those companies. Maybe he’s got a sense of humour.
I guess it could be: If you’re an arsehole, he’ll give you something horrible. If you’re a good soul, then he’d be a sweetheart.
Who are we fooling? When it’s time, it’s time. And it will be time. For all of us.
You think Death sits about on a coffee break or a smoke break, stressed out his head?
“State of the world these days, by the way — no wonder I’m so fucking busy.”
Or maybe he’s bragging:
“Can’t wait to get this finished and go home and see the wife. It’s date night… she loves my bones.”
Or maybe he’s bitter. Seen too much. Tired. No respite.
Section 4
I see friends, family. No longer with us. Those fighting today.
Who are we to lay down and die,
Whilst they struggle and fight,
While the world is full of suffering and indifference?
Lift your voice. Lift your heart. You are alive. Now. Here. In this moment.
Section 5
My eyes open. I’m on the bridge.
“You say this rain’s going to fall.”
Life isn’t about deserve. Never has been. Never will be.
I remember my dad telling me:
'Life isn’t fair, son.'
That, and:
'Get your retaliation in first.'
And I know, we aren’t born to walk through this life apologising for who we are. Tender hearts. For believing in love, life, music, words, art.
If you want to take this away from me, you better be ready to die.
Art belongs to everyone. The misfits. The outsiders. Forever.
I see the graffiti on the bridge for the first time.
AP is a fanny.
I laugh. Who the fuck is AP?
This machine kills fascists.
Woody Guthrie fans in this neighbourhood.
Believe.
I ran my hand over the word. Am I dreaming? I picked up my guitar. I felt the weight of it. The strings, the frets, the calluses in my fingers. Walked back to the street. Ready to find somewhere to play a song.
Includes lyrics from the Paul Andrew Sneddon song “Burn”
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon. All Rights ReservedLucky One
I thought I was at the end:
the end of time,
the end of life,
the end of the line.
But I was at the beginning.
You've got to start somewhere.
I started here, started again, down by the water, the river.
I thought I hallucinated myself on the water of the Clyde,
on a raft, going into the city.
I gave myself a wave as I drifted by.
When I looked over, I smiled a toothless grin.
My eyes were blank, empty.
I saw it on the news: they pulled a body from the river.
Or was it a mannequin?
Sometimes I dream,
in the light hours,
that I am on a boat,
out of the city,
down the coast, home.
I wake up couch surfing in Partick,
or on the bus,
or in the library.
Sometimes you can't go back.
That little pub on the corner,
drinking away my days,
drinking away my time,
my money,
my looks,
such as they are.
My liver is operating under protest,
much like my mind, much like the rest of me.
Analogue in a digital world,
as I carried on oblivious to the world around me,
as it shrank from the work,
from the stage,
from home to the bar,
to the glass,
the bottle,
the end.
You could leave it there if you like.
But it would be a lie.
That's not the end of the story.
I've seen that story before,
like sickness on the wall,
like piss from the radio,
like blood in the lungs:
grace and love
and blood and tears
and guilt and pain
and forgiveness.
And luck,
lots of luck,
and some bloody stubborn people
that wouldn't let it go.
Get up,
get up off the floor,
get up you son of a bitch,
get up.
Regret, mistakes,
pain, hurt,
love, forgiveness,
light,
a blinding light,
a hospital bed.
"We can't keep saving you, man.
The country is on its knees."
The old guy in the next room, light escaping.
Get up,
get up off the floor.
The nurse, the nurse,
she whispered in my ear,
"Get up you son of a bitch, get up, because I love you."
I woke up in the house, on our couch.
Heard you calling from garden,
your nurse's uniform on the line.
Sunshine in your eyes.
I am a lucky one.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 