Alex Kimmelman
 

At the Edge
(of the asphalt)
 
 
 
 
 

A meeting place between the man-made  igneous flow and the rest of what there is.   The road, born and reshaped in heat,  elastic and flexible, serpentine. A path to someplace else, or back to where you’ve been.   Grade and curve in constant variation.   And at the edge, grasses and weeds,  the occasional flower, bush and shrub. Only the sturdiest survive,  those who are self sufficient. Seeking allies of wind and rain, reaching out for the moisture rapidly flowing off the hardscape. Water in all its manifestations, liquid, ice and vapor. Invading every crack and fissure, advancing constantly to reclaim the zone of life.   And the hillside cuts, beautiful, colorful,  a picture book of time, telling the story of ages. Boring in their enormity and regularity. Geologically silent, or far from the angle of repose.   A slave to gravity and dangerous to be around.   Then the offerings of the human creator. The signs and posted markers, symbols of distance and place Fences and barriers, meant to keep  the wandering traveler on the beaten path.   Ode to the efficiency of chain link. Constant solicitations, invitations, notice and appeal,  ‘don’t forget your plastic!”   And the garbage, the broken strips of rubber The residue that used to be part of the road,  but is now manifested by a hole. So given to disintegrate, so easily repaired.   A world in microcosm. Witness to the constant flow of the mechanical beasts  and their flesh and blood occupants.   In a world of artificial climate and infantile utopia.   The car as womb. Leaving the occasional taste of blood,  of flesh left clinging to the pavement   A world repeated on the other side of the road.

  (c)Alex Kimmelman 2003