I’ve been thinking of salt as a kind of embodied and transferable memory. Excavations of ancient seas, long dried up and now far beneath earth’s surface, warrant salt that we sprinkle on food and that absorbs into our body. Salt we sprinkle on roads. Salt that then dissolves and leaches back into the soil when it’s rained on. I keep these thoughts near notions of home. Notions that home, and our proximity to an orienting center, changes as one disperses – or is dispersed – into life. Or, more specifically, notions and memories of my hometown; a rural place that seems to also be dissolving back into the earth. At times these memories are washed away like the residue left on the skin, or in the mouth, after being in the ocean. It has a taste like perspiration, and it reminds me of the sea within the self.