I seem to have a hard time composing these entries without the help of a visual aid to spur my thoughts. Usually writing comes in the morning, when I have just woken up (as it is today), and my dreams are the first thing that come to mind. Dreams don't seem to be an appropriate conversation starter on a blog; neither does my to do list. So I attempt to go back or go forward, anyplace that conjures a moment where life seemes a tiny bit simpler than now -- a Sunday of work piled up, cool overcast summer skies and crickets chirping steadily outside the window, like drops of rain. The power of nostalgia makes the past become enhanced by a glow, like a hazy circle around a setting sun, that often is more evocative than the simpicity of the present moment. Thankfully though, conjuring in all its forms does make us aware of the senses. Writing these sentences has already made my morning more pleasant than it would have been without this post. Meta-conversatioin here, folks.

So this photo brings me back to a long, long day of driving -- 12 hours or so -- from Brunswick, Maine to Ithaca, New York. With little money and little food Jess and I set out from Maine only to become lost on a backroad detour. Maine cowpaths are even worse than Boston. From there we traveled through the pick-up truck encrusted byways of Southeastern New Hampshire, the land of the weekend family vacation. Stopping at a Wendy's for lunch, Jess and I scarfed down the meatful or meatless food (depending on our personal piccadilies that noon) served with a side of condiments. Then onto I-91 through the southern tip of Vermont to Massachusetts, the Turnpike and the Taconic Parkway. By the time we exited the Taconic we were ready for home, but sadly we still had about four more hours to go, much of which we took through the two-lane highways of the Hudson Valley, crossing the Hudson at its more riverlike width at its namesake Hudson, New York. At one point we climbed up a mountain in the Catskills where I thought I was going to fly off the highway out into the sky (unfortunately I was driving). We weaved our way through small valley towns where the cemeteries were bigger than the Main streets and citizens seemed to hide behind checkered gingham curtains in their old 1930's dilapidated homes. Little inhabitants could be found besides a lone 12-year old boy slowly riding a BMX bike down the wrong side of the road. It was amazing to me that these communities survive and are part of the state of New York, a state where 500 miles away you still find roadsigns pointing to New York City and state-line posters boasting of the Statue of Liberty near the far west Pennsylvania border. It was an exhausting, strange day, but a day that was off the highway, and hence more memorable than many.