To The Middle Of Nowhere (first letter)

You’ve been here in my mind all this time, a joint custody drop-off location, a pick-up place, an anonymous point between homes in transit, a parking lot coddled in darkness, a gas station like any and all others, a strip mall stop-off continually reconfiguring, on and on, always different and always the same.
You’re without civility, a deregulated madness, a constant threat of life without rights or resources, of political invisibility.
You’re revealed in those moments when I suddenly realize I’d be utterly lost if I got kicked out of the vehicle I’m in — that I’d have no way of knowing how to get back to where I came from (or locate wherever it was that I’d meant to get to).
You shift along the tree line, beside the highway, receding back and forth in time and space, an interchangeable, endless array of hinterland, rural dread, overgrown forest and urban sprawl.
You’re a returning twilight, a relentless obscurity and forgetting. You are the unspoken defeat of the under classes, the continued illiteracy of the disadvantaged, the coordinates of the unfulfilled.
You’ve formed my ambitions to escape, to be known, to connect with others, to try something, anything, to get away from you. You’ve made me inherently marginal and awkwardly ambitious despite myself. You and I both know where we’re coming from.
Anything tangible, seemingly permanent or identifiable, moves through you and past me, as if all things were strange pilgrims of a faith I know nothing about but think I might be able to understand or relate to if given half a chance. Sometimes we share paths and directions, roads and rooms, at least for a while, often in silence, usually under any number and combination of false pretences, assumptions and misunderstandings.
Cities still hold a related promise of intimacy, an allure of connection. It could be one of your cruelest jokes (if only you had a sense of humor). Architecture tries to fend you off, only to draw you out through contrast in the process. Culture tries to smother you but ends up tired out, emptied of all known energies, confused about initial goals and intentions.
We’re back to where we started on a regular basis. I want to move on. To be engaged with you is to be bound by an objectifying relation of power, a fixed loop, a mechanical reflex.
Not everyone is so painfully aware of all this. I’d like to be one of them. I’d like to find Utopia in no place at all.