There are places we pass, that intertwine with the world of history and fiction. I share with Alder only a fraction of these tales. Not because I want to keep them from him but because we would never move from one spot if I was to tell every tale attached to every sight. That’s the way my mind works, it searches the visual and the oral and creates stories or recalls histories (both personal and larger).
He finds his own stories in the objects we pass by. He expresses them in questions or stories that he tells me. He makes guesses, looks for connections and when it strikes him he brings up his magic world where he controls the science and society, where there are candy mountains and slides made out of rice and only one light bulb (that’s all they need).
Sometimes we turn a corner and I am surprised by something new to me. A building I’ve never seen, a rebuilt garden. Eight years in this city I am still enthralled by its neighborhoods and the echos of the past they hold.
Maybe it is all the stories we tell, or the buildings we look at, but I find that even the most predictable pieces of our environment can fill my head with stories.