Oral Notes From a Northbound Nissan

•Interstate Highway 35 this is the slim black ribbon that slices the East of America from the West. Intermittently, I grab hold and pull myself northward, hand over hand at 82 mph. I always start in the dark. I always follow my Compass as the sun rises over my right shoulder. Always in the cold, always in the short days of winter. I should make Wichita by lunch time. There is a sense of holy pilgrimage, a North Star guided journey into the browned and bowed grasses and barren fields of wheat. (Unfinished)

•The I 35 Corridor is my origin story. The source. I am not “from” Nebraska, or Texas, Or Fort Worth or anywhere else. I am from every mile marker in the American Fertile Crescent. I have to write down everything that means.

•Yes, we are making good time. Remember, I have 34 years experience being the thread in a needle that zigzags back-and-forth between the Platte River and the Red.

•iTunes won’t connect in the car, radio host is taking calls from listeners to tell what they are thankful for. Local lady thankful for the constitution. Local man is both thankful for Sarah Sanders, and that he does not have to be Sarah Sanders. Hello, heartland.

•If my steering wheel is a machine-driven needle , and I am a fine white thread, there is a hard, thick seam between the Red River and the Platte. Stiffened by 34 years of repetition, stitching latitude to longitude to mile markers to my memory. Oklahoma City, again.

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