stretches of

by the time I arrived in this lovely home state of mine, it had gotten very dark. you can't tell from my cheap and crooked photograph, but the swirling inky sky and the jagged charcoal horizon were slightly different colors, I promise. a few light and lonely-looking stars sparked in what I could see of the sky. as you may know, there's never much to be seen of the sky from a car driving along any stretch of canyon road. the mountains eat it up--the looming heaviness of them. the undeniably substantial presence of them. the solid, enveloping shadow of them.

it is good to be home. this doesn't mean it wouldn't be good to be anywhere else--but home is nice. there are good people here and many things to look forward to.

once upon a time during a conversation of the 'what would you say was your happiest/saddest/angriest/ugliest memory?' genre, I settled on the thought of my drowsy self in somebody else's car, falling asleep full of trust and comfort and the subtle sense of movement. this, I decided, was my very happiest memory. a few years later, I began, with this first post, a silly intermittent not-really-art project. you and me in a car. here are the latest adventures. lately, most of the time I'm alone in my vehicle, stretching the distance (and time?) between me and several important people much too far. I can't be everywhere. neither can you. this isn't as unfortunate as it sounds. we can make up for it in other ways. scarcity, after all, is what gives so many things their value.

and so after a whole year of mountainlessness and familylessness, I am making up for it, a little.