My Witness Is The Empty Sky

My grandfather was a highwayman.  He jumped in the car and headed out of the city whenever his work permitted.  He's ninety now, and I know selling his camper was no easy task.  My mother was the same way.  At my age, she would go for long drives on the highway for time to herself and peace of mind.  My uncle also had a love affair with the road, selling all of his belongings and heading out to California with nothing but a camera and a motorcycle.  I guess you could say I inherited the desire to be on the road.  That desire was realized when I started commuting between my home in Arkansas and school in California.  Taking my Chevy Trailblazer across the country has allowed for some great  quiet times in the middle of nowhere, and not to mention, countless hours for taking photographs.  I must have over 1,000 images of the highway, my truck, and the deserts I have passed through.  I feel the history of America on the highway, especially when I head west.  I start thinking about all the men and women who have driven down the same lonely route as I.  I imagine what they left behind and what they were headed to.

"Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life."


-n.