I have, in my hands, a book that contains stories of a myriad people and places, woven together to animate and illuminate a section of life-lived. I can open the book and read about my own sense of idealism and energy. I am excited again by the place names that are familiar yet exotic.
Each line I read evokes a new response to that event. "Those were the days", "Hmmm.... maybe I don't see it like that so much any more." Each story that I wrote, image painted in my mind's eye, is repainted each time it is read with new experiences attached to it.
I update what I wrote before in context of my life now. That dillapidated Soviet Hotel in Romanian; I think of Urban Exploring I recently researched. That feeling of flying down the mountains in the Alps created by endorphins; I need to get out mountain biking more. I remember how cold it was on my fingers that felt as if they would freeze. A crisp, definite, point of experience which is marked upon my being.
There are so many unanswered questions from the course of events that unfolded in the book which are still to be resolved; the question of group dynamics: What is the best solution for working harmoniously in a group? What is the role of music in life? Something to lift the mood and give energy or an affective medium that awakens? What is the role of the media, ubiqitous as it is? Just 'entertainment' and 'news' or a way to control a population?
All the chapters of the book come together as an overall story; whether its the question of preparation, a leap into the unknown, meeting wise people, dealing with borders and bureaucracy, personal musings and questioning, joy and celebration, movement, love, nature... A section of the human condition recorded for others to read into just as I do when I pick up the book and start reading.