Thu, 19 May 2005

i keep making mistakes.
At night, the diesel rigs pull off the interstate and park on the side of the access road, the engines idling through the night to power televisions, heaters, small electric ovens. Now that time has slowed for me, I begin to notice the trucks, able to spot those who run the same route, and I note that they often park together, small clusters, the drivers walking out into the field. At first I thought this was to exchange sexual favors, or to buy and sell drugs, but last night I walked out to the spot in the field where they meet and saw a small shrine made of flat slate, crosses made of pallet slats and copper wire, small cups of port wine set into the ground, now covered in a skin of dead mosquitoes. I suspect there is a voodoo for truckers as there is a voodoo for moonshiners, but that’s just one more question I’ll never know the answer to.
(12:13.05.19.2005) [/ana] #