It is a known scientific fact: the combination of pavement and white lines have a proven psychotropic effect on the writerly head. The chemistry of open road and automobile is a thought generator. Characters come to sit beside you in the passenger seat. Plot points ride shotgun.

I look forward to the drive down to the house every Friday evening with a calm but crazy joy. I can think while driving in a way I never could while riding the subway. Having that breathing asphalt stretching out in front of me is a meditation. The Ohm of rolling wheels. The Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dance of steering wheel and curve. The white line ticks like the ticking brain.

On those weekly drives to the house, on those near-empty roads, my head speaks to me as it does almost nowhere else. The road disappears.

You know you’ve driven carefully on those lightly-traveled two-lane highways (you’d wind up skiing down a mountain if you hadn’t been), but you don’t remember the ride. You may ask yourself “well, how did I get here?”…and the only answer is the tape recorder in your lap, warm with minutes and minutes of thoughts; thoughts that demand to be transcribed the minute the garage door to the river house is closed.

This is the entry into the parallel existence of created world; the best way to live on both planes at once. Meditations on Asphalt. Buddha horsepower. Driving among the stars inside.

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