Voyages

I have spent a lot of time looking at US maps. I love maps. They represent a paradox, being, as they are, concrete abstractions. I have looked at as many maps of the US as I can get hold of. I remember a NASA space photograph of Earth, with the tiny rectangle of US outlined in the middle, my small home on the earth a wash of green, as in a watercolor painting. I remember a map, all in black, that showed light as it is projected at night in the US-from the glow of cities, to the islands of light that are turnpike rest stops, to the streetlights of small towns, to the dots of lights, like constellations, made by farm lights hung from poles in the middle of barnyards. Maps that shade counties according to rural health statistics: population over 65, low-birth-weight babies, heart disease and cancer death rates. Maps that show water both above and below the surface of the earth. Vegetation maps and maps that chart the progress of railroad development. Maps that show ethnic settlement patterns and the density of hogs, chickens, cattle, and horses. All these maps, of course, try to describe, try to parallel, try to be, somehow, the USA. Together, they exist in my mind, as the USA exists in my mind, both a reality and a representation. I keep having the strong sensation that the USA-with its highways, rivers, towns, and cities-looked exactly like I thought it would from the air. It matched the map in my head. Why? Well, I have spent hours traveling the state time and again, taking different highways, crossing rivers, coming to the tops of hills and looking miles in the distance, memorizing both the distance and litany of towns along highways. For now, it is but a dream. As I dream hard and work harder, it will soon become a reality.