Our Movement

I love the pace of this trip. 

No, we don’t have weeks to spend in every state. We’re spending no more than two days in each place. We begin to get to know each city, connect with strangers, then we pick up and we’re off to a new.  

I guess I’m beginning to understand the beauty of detachment. But Sarah and I are not roaming Buddhists. There’s that whole dispassion bit—that just doesn’t fly with us. It’s impossible not to feel, not to be lifted and absorbed by this movement, these vibes, these voices. 

Pieces of everyone we meet remain with me, impressed somewhere in my memory—some have even become my skin. Their words in reminiscences fly from my lips, we laugh. Some words linger longer than others. Some smiles seem warmer than others. Some responses more grave than others…  

And sure, the ultimate goal of the trip is supposed to be the making of a documentary on American identity. But it’s not only the people that speak. It’s not only people that define America. Landscapes speak volumes. Sarah listens to me talk about landscapes and laments that she cannot appreciate them like I do—she’s looking at the road. Sure she sees what’s around her, but she’s focused on not killing us, and I thank her for that. So I promise to write about them. I almost can’t help it.  

They’re singing—these planes, these hills, these roads, these trees, and even the cars.  It’s a symphony that no one in particular is conducting, and every note is unique.  

It’s as if I’m a radio transmitter, with a few extra capacities. Sounds go in, and become images.  Images go in, and become concepts, ideas. Then I mess with them; I think about them and write. Sometimes I have to talk about them before I can really think.  Sometimes I just sit.  

Then we get up again and move. I can’t get enough of this movement.      

(Alex)