My world is built of images and memories.

Or rather:

There are images that recur in my life. Things that are stamped so deeply into my brain that they bleed into everything I do. Some are quite obvious, others less so.

Here in no order whatsoever, are a few:

The smell of caves
The paper nautilus.
Hadeda ibises perched in trees, whole flocks of them like pterodactyls
Bees rescued from drowning
Dead skates with their eyes pecked out by gulls.
Red tide in the lagoon.
The sea under street lights, when the air smells of rotting weed and clean salt.
Pebbles balanced like totems to mark the way.
A mantis’s head and jaws moving as she eats a spider.
Tadpoles in shallow streams, small dark squiggles against the sharp stones.
Sleeping in a bed raised high on milk crates, until it was just under the ceiling
Rainspiders living in old lanterns.
A house decorated with animal skulls, the garden full of windmills and moving metal.
A room with nothing in it but a skin rug, stitched together in patches of leather, and a lead and glass bookcase full of old National Geographics
Cuttle fish bones picked off the beach, scraping the spongy white pith under my thumbnail.