There is really only one Conversation. Life, the Universe and Everything in all its parts. Islands of consciousness connected by gossamer threads of shared meaning. Almost better'n sex.
Well. Since the Word must become Flesh, the least the flesh can do is keep itself more or less ready for anything. One of the few areas of my life where I try to impose discipline for discipline's sake (and because I want to, um, live long and prosper).
An intellectual interest. These things scare me, they make sudden noises and can kill you. Kind of like cars, only smaller.
Grist for the mill of (1) above. Hidden in this and in many esoteric traditions are pathways for perceiving the Infinite. About this nothing can be said, except where anything that can be said says all that needs to be said.
Books. Old, new, in any language. Consciousness transmitted, translated, preserved, renewed, awakened. Wondrously miraculous worlds. The Conversation extended to include those who, though now perhaps laid in dust, had sense enough to write down some of what they thought or saw.
Be. Here. Now. Mmmmmmh.. Aaahhhh.
Classical, rock, blues, folk, filk, jazz, gospel, even some country. Harmonies.
Why can't we all just get along?
Isaac Asimov, Poul Anderson, Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlein, Dan Simmons, in approximately that order. Along with all the rest.