I fell in love with an idea of America.
Desert roads, haze on the horizon, white lines on grey tarmac disappearing to the vanishing point in the impossible distance.
Art Deco towers in chrome and steel, visions of the future from the 30s.
Open skies above endless plains.
Wrought iron fire escape stairs unwinding down concrete buildings.
John Ford vistas in Monument Valley. Woody and Diane on a bench in Central Park, Springsteen ripping up the Jersey shore, Marvin and Tammi radiating love and colour through black and white TV sets, and Bob and Jeff in the Village, decades apart, holding coffee shops with just a guitar and poetry. Joni in Laurel Canyon.
Sane crazy dreamers on Haight Asbury, daisy chain strings in their hair, tuning in, turning on, dropping out. Pushing furthur on the bus with Kesey and the Pranksters. Chasing the ghost of Gram Parsons in the scrub of Joshua Tree.
Pedal steels and heartbreak.
Adidas trainers, laces pulled out, tapping on caged courts cracked under the sun.
Shore to shore, coast to coast, highways criss crossing State lines and states of mind.
I fell in love. And my idea of America remains.