my favorite place is no place at all
A series of dots mirror the color of the sunrise that is both beautiful and blinding. These dots so small and so close accumulate into parallel directives leading me into the horizon. I'm at mile 515, it’s the morning of day two and I find myself completely alone in the open landscape of remote Idaho. This is ‘my place’; a packed black and white container of English steel traveling 12 mph over the speed limit. I'm entranced by the glittering of the sprayed yellow paint used to create the division lines on the highway. They are like ribbons floating in a shadowy residue of those who passed before me. I have such a love affair with line, its ability to lead the eye, contain a volume, connect points, and divide pieces. I think about line; a collection of moving marks that join to create a bound path. My mind wanders to the function of these lines; a cautionary sign of safety, a boundary, an illusion of division. How can something 2-dimensional create such a palpable barrier? A quick reflective flash brings my attention to the chrome fender of the semi-truck approaching on my left. Both hands are on the wheel now, my little car is easily swayed. The illusion of boundary is quickly broken as the wheel jerks to the right, responding to the gust of air created by the massive passing machine. For that brief moment, isolated in my protective barrier, I felt the presence of the other driver without touching or sharing a word. Our vehicles introduced us, passing particles of dust floating in the air.