"Write in recollection and amazement for yourself."

Standing at the bus stop outside of work I find myself gathering little piles of snow by scraping the side of my boot against the ice on the ground. When I get it about an inch high I smash it down and compact it back into the ice and begin again. It's 4:30 and the sun is almost gone. The sky is pink and yellow with a winding blue path, receding into the too-huge sky. I welcome thoughts of my old favorite writer, Jack, once again. It was the way he saw the world, and the way he went about exploring it that drew me in.

America, January nineteenth, two thousand and eight.
"...It occurs to me that I am America. I am talking to myself again."

That's not Jack, that's Allen. But they both liked to write about America. Allen started with his conscience. Jack came from the perspective of the land first and the road... and then the people, and he expanded from there. San Francisco was the "end of land sadness." His road west was filled with "verduous fields of prune and juice joy." Everything and everyone different. We've all got different experiences of America. Different ways of waiting for the bus.

The tone of this little piece is already wistful, and I feel like that's the mindset I have, looking around me and only now realizing-- Alaska... America. It's the dwindling nature of my time here, maybe, that's allowing me to appreciate it. Maybe it just took me awhile to see it and not resent it for being other than what I expected. In any case, wistful is the word. I've been crushed by the world's weight in beauty. It's a frustration I am happy to bear, having seen things that strike me with awe, that I had no part in creating and no control over... These things make me feel small, and my only relief is to share the feeling with someone else. I keep thinking of Lewis and Clark and their expedition out West, and what it was like to see all this America for the first time. Well, not Alaska, but you know what I mean. What an adventure this has been.

"We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked up at each other for the last time..."