The road that is seen in the rearview mirror has shards of exquisite memory embedded in the shoulders and under clearings between trees, but it is littered with the husks of good ideas unrealized, of gallons of milk gone sour, of friendships betrayed, of solitude interrupted, of rusted cars and broken shoelaces and sharpness where kindness was expected. And so the road behind shields the memory of beauty behind the thickening crust of accumulated reality, but the road ahead glitters with the nuggets of all that can still be achieved, found, treasured.
Where did this unending journey begin? The Atlas that beckoned from the bookshelf: countries with scalloped coastlines and names from nursery rhymes, aunts and uncles who only existed as disembodied voices over telephone lines, with the entire mystery of where did they live, what did they look like, what exactly was the family relationship, what would it be like to live their life? Back issues of National Geographic, hopelessly outdated, photographs of puzzled posers gazing from their depths, displayed alongside vessels for underwater exploration. Books set in places other than here, films taunting with offers of how.
itineraries for the upcoming fortnight: from here to Chicago, to Jersey (not UK), to Dallas.
snow tires on, snow shovel stashed, storm windows in place