Warp – Shenandoah
One of my few early memories is of camping in the mountains. Shenandoah. It reverberates inside me like a magical word. The Great Smoky Mountains. There were three trips, and clearly three trips as I was entirely different in size, but they’re fused in my mind.
When I was maybe 8, I remember climbing boulders and small trees. I was quite a scrambler-up of things in my early years. We pulled over at a lookout and could see a road far below. A road we had been on. It allowed me to open my mind to encompass greater dimension. It was a literal expansion of my consciousness, being able to process where there was and where here was and understand how they related to one another.
When I was around 4, I remember mom and dad arguing about which hike to take. My sister was in a baby carrier, and they didn’t know if the hike to the Falls was too long. I had been eating Fungions, and the smell of the trees was mixed with the faint scent of onion. There was a moment of pure, ecstatic joy, looking up through the tall trees and then closing my eyes and letting the dappled sunshine form a pattern through my lids.
When I was less than two, they made a bed in a suitcase for me. I remember curling up in it. I remember the chill, and the smell that was musty and yet like mom and dad. I remember the rough edge of a zipper. Is this a genuine memory, or one manufactured from hearing the story? How can we ever tell the difference between memories and re-drawn or revised memories, or ones invented wholly out of belief?