Memories are just fragments of film. It’s odd, some of the events our brains retain, be they home movies, or pure fiction–intricate fabrications focused tighter and tighter over time. The power of suggestion is strong, indeed. My mother is one of those story tellers who believes in the fables she’s invented, says my dad. I have no reliable source of reality in regards to my childhood, though I do tend to put heavier stock in most things my dad has to say, because he’s not bat shit crazy. Or is he? Dad did a lot of hard drugs when he was young, says my mother–she’s mentioned angel dust and heroine more than a handful of times. But that was before I was born, so why should I care? Right? Right?
These are some things that I know are real memories.
I do recall, without uncertainty, my dad harvesting some of…
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