Trying to perfect my emotions surrounding faces in dark as one trucker passes another.
| Bright sunshine exposes the solidity of metals glimmering against each other. Great wheels hum and turn feverishly. Concrete refuses to yield to the monsters upon it. Mile after mile after mile they move. The action of going down the highways of America is constant. There are no instances where stillness prevails. The constant movement can be felt in the cab of each metal creature. The driver holds his wheel with both hands and watches each movement of each vehicle in the personal space of his own monster. His hands nor his mind can wander from this continuous effort of piloting his heavy, fast machine.
In the daylight glare, reality throws itself upon the man behind the wheel. Street signs and lights swiftly pass from sight as his particular route unfolds. His trailer is loaded with goods that must reach their destination safely and in a timely fashion. The road envelopes him as he speeds along. While occupied vehicles zip around him and crowded cities fade to single lanes, he rides alone as the sun passes across the skies.
The huge creatures creep around the truck stop parking lots, as large gators in a swampy hole. Rolling slowly out and picking up speed where single lanes merge into greater ones and back again as the sun fades. This is when the magic begins to happen, and sitting in the windshield where he has spent the day his world transforms. The hardness of the metal disappears into shadowy movements while gray tires beat the pavement with a rhythm that reverberates into his body. One with his massive machine, one with the loneliness of a crowded highway.
Magic, I said, oh, yes! Spending years in a cab that becomes your home, speeding day after night after day along familiar and strange and unfinished roads, you sometimes disappear into yourself. The night, that lightless time where evil comes to play under murky cover, transforms the beasts they drive, and transforms the beings sitting alone, their tiny steads inside. As one great mechanical beast approaches and passes the other, the scene is directly opposite of the daytime visual.
Darkness unfolds ghostly faces printed on the glass. The souls of the drivers are bared for any who looks to see. No aura, but a glimpse of the exact art of continuous travel. Lonely, with sometimes a mist of cigarette smoke swirling about in manufactured and swiftly passing light effects. Minimal cab lights and passing streetlights reveal the soul of the driver, the ghostly face in the bug splattered window glass.