I love words.
These baskets woven of sound - these containers for some nugget that we have cut from the stream of our thinking. We click and hiss and hammer the air and another brain catches our thoughts.
I love the murmur of a place where people gather - air vibrating as these woven baskets and their cargoes of meanings move among minds.
I love that humans play with this elaborately crazy adaptation - we joke, we sing, we pun.
I love to travel to places visited long ago. To see the peaks of Olympus rising above the Puget Sound and think, "Oh, I'd forgotten how they loom over the city in light like this." To see old friends who are sudden years farther down their paths and have them see me. To replace memories that are tattered, blurred and incomplete, with new ones.
I love when memories of place get crossed - the drizzle of Seattle so exactly like the soft rain of Cork.
I love to travel to places new. In Costa Rica, there is a place upon the skirt of a volcano where a little seam of white turns a river an opalescent blue. And markets where the fruit is strange and the seller must explain what parts to eat - tomate de palo, cas, manzana de agua, rambutan . . .
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