I looked up derecho when we stopped for gas, replaying the haunted eyes of the locals naming it. Surreal scenes of wind-blasted silos and flattened corn fields lasted for hours, on a road as straight as the storm and its path of destruction through Iowa. Our first summer moving across the United States, we slept at truck stops, rest areas, parks, and primitive camps sometimes situated at hidden attractions. Inside a man-made tunnel that once carried water to communities, a distant memory resembling a nightmare surfaced. My first aesthetic awakening—I was maybe seven years old, on a river that carried our boat through the monumental mouth of a monster. Engulfed in the dark and damp belly of the dragon, colorful and haunting tableaus set in mythological purgatory emerged. A dystopian theme park ride in Singapore designed to teach and preserve traditional Chinese values, proved effective in scaring children into becoming moral, well-behaving citizens.

A wild bull trapped in the wild. A telltale road sign.
A branded horse. A branded building. A cowboy motel.
Plastic pony left on a plastic table.
Bees sleeping next to a highway.
A diver meeting the horizon.
Floating flag apparition. Red congregation.
A daylily eating itself. A sweating recliner.
An image in a mirror. A mirror in an image.

I photograph my partner for the first time—though initially as an improvised response to the social distancing era. Another immigrant in this country we call home, his gaze meets mine—subverting and complicating the visual narrative, sometimes softening the journey as we cross this charged expanse.

(work in progress)