Flyovers
For most of my adult life, I have lived apart from my nuclear family and have flown back and forth across the United States for yearly visits, reserving a window seat to be able to peer down and study the contours and colors of the landscapes below. The lines from 30,000 feet seem to have their own rhythm and colors their own vibration, beyond their earthly forms. Roads become insulated wires, veins, intersecting lines that frame swatches of color, tone, and texture, sometimes blurred through the cloud cover, sometimes sharply highlighted by the sunset. Countless times flying over this land, I have mapped my own inner-landscapes: dense pine forests; flat, manicured cropland; red-clay deserts; blonde chaparral; Vegas neon. Thoughts become texture and emotions become color: soft, pink longings; hard, yellow anxiety; relief in gold, glowing undertones. The anticipation of returning to a certain, or not-so certain, emotional landscape. Flyovers.
