kurtiss.org

Two curving rows of conical, flat-orange dispursions needle their presence through a dense fog on my highway. It’s one of those analog effects that even the wizards of cinematic digital mimicry would disown. If color had a taste, and a smell, then this pale orange would leave traces of a sterile metal. Bare and simple, it projects a cleansing bitterness on the sides of your tongue. My own trajectory through the lights is unsteady. There is something raw and unrefined about a car that just moves. It just moves without luxury or comfort, without even a legitimate interface to the road and passengers beyond. Still, my path cleaves through factories and churches, plazas and promenades, all the while mocking humanity for moving backwards while I sit still. That’s it: humanity is moving, humanity at a distance. Simple minds busily make a living, scrape their knuckles, and dare not show themselves. Each one is perhaps too trained, or too entranced, to cry during a lunch hour and laugh at a cubicle. No, no, they are much too grown up for such nonsense. Looking straight-ahead, I can smell the lake and lay a desperate finger on the Canadian border. Instead of going home, I could be on an adventure. An adventure in a private, shoddy vessel, where the treasure is the map. The movement is the destination. To stop is to become enslaved, and to press on is to be free. I wish I could drive forever.