Named after a great uncle John David who worked for the roads department and could read the granite boulders to find the seams that would crack open with dynamite, the spelling of my name congealed from what he used to be called: Jondi. In many way the juncture between a line, a crack, a seam and the reading of such is the story of a shared life of making-way and giving-way, of clearing and bafflement that has defined my life as a cast stone skipping across paved roads to unsealed ones, as if in a landslide with a mouthful of chocolate. Like a city afloat on rats, or the vestiges of a retina in every cell, the movements we take for granted are driven by communities of interests. Therefore it is no surprise when all the cells in my body turn to the left and towards the light before I do, or that a chlorophyll consciousness runs communications between myself and the rain dates I have made with the person I have put off becoming, or that although a rat is born every 3 seconds every 15 seconds a rat is born that will change the contour of consciousness. These events are the betrayal of no surprise that a life offers to those who hold a place in place with just a nick-name.