Wandering - unsettledness, rootlessness, estrangement - is a classical American characteristic: much of the country, at least in the West, is still on the raft with Huck and Jim. Certainly major areas of American culture celebrate mobility, the poetics of the open road. A literary genre from Twain to Whitman to Kerouac to innumerable contemporary writers, it is perhaps the central theme of country music with all its rolling stones and lost highways, its strain whistles and truck-driving epics; and it cuts a wide swath through American film, whose favorite subjects have always been tramps, outlaws, and cowboys (and whose recent swarm of road movies have at last included women as coequal wanderers rather than as milestones in a male journey). It is a psychic condition in which landscape and the freedom to move through it compensate for loneliness and disassociation, the internal exile of the outsider. It is a connoisseurship of the bittersweet taste of melancholy, of the blue of distance, of landscapes with a road running through their center, the horizon as a promise rather than a boundary. Wandering was supposed to be a finite part of American experience: you left the old world and came to the new world, a literal transplant complete with roots, but a huge portion of the population kept moving.
Rebecca Solnit "Scapeland," in Crimes and Splendors: The Desert Cantos of Richard Misrach (via greatleapsideways)
I’ve never seen any life transformation that didn’t begin with the person in question finally getting tired of their own bullshit.
Elizabeth Gilbert (via kateoplis)
I realise there’s something incredibly honest about trees in winter, how they’re experts at letting things go.
Jeffrey McDaniel (via crocket)