One of my dad’s childhood/teen friends died not far from this point in the 1960s when his car went off the road. Two of my own friends were involved in a near-death accident not far from the same curve.
Every scrap of roadway has its share of known and unknown imprints, narratives that fold into its history, or fade away when there’s no one around to receive or remember the tale.
It might seem melancholy–that twisting highways maintain a sense of impermanent identity, their stories grievous, alternately joyous. The roads themselves are temporary, constructed of pliable materials–asphalt itself an aggregate fluid, a collage of mineral components. Impermanence, however, is the natural state of matter itself. It’s the natural state of that familiar black paving and the memories and ideas associated with its rolled-out surface.