I hold in my hand a palm-sized stone that seems to be weathered by the heaviness of time. The stone, at first, is cold to the touch—mimicking the temperature of what is around it. As I hold it, as time passes (only a short time it seems) the stone takes on the temperature of my body and I no longer notice where the stone ends and my body begins. I place it my pocket and carry on. At the end of the day, my pockets are emptied: keys, wallet, change, chap stick, phone, puffer, and the stone still sharing my warmth. With each movement I made and step I took, the stone began gathering traces of the meetings it experienced. I carried this stone, and then another, and another, everyday, inviting them to record their intimate encounters, and I began returning the favour.
I kick a stone, a larger stone, a stone the size of my foot. It is heavy and hard and skids across the ground. It jumps over curbs, stumbles upon the road, back onto the sidewalk, across a lawn, back on the sidewalk and then up the hill it goes. It crashes, and bangs, and even begins to echo when it nears the metal pole stuck in the ground. It becomes bruised with white marks and is drawn upon by the green grasses and weeds it passes over—it becomes a new stone.
