A few years ago we were wandering around Ireland and came across Staigue Fort on a cold, cloudy day in late June. We took photos, climbed the stone walls, and marveled at how something could last so long without so much as a dollop of mortar.
Then one day it turned out the fort needed to be the setting for a collage. A 5K had just gone past our house and I shot dozens of pictures of runners knowing they’d rather run atop the fortress than down some city street.
Memory, she said, is like a collage. We remember patches of things and cut and paste them into something like the past but different, more dreamlike. She says things like that, or at least that’s how I remember it.
And that’s how dreams are, weird collages of memories and hopes and fears.
I cut up my photos and collate the mundane pieces into something more interesting to look at (hopes I). That process bleeds into life itself and the memories become more dreamlike. Didn’t I actually see a 5K going across the top of little known fort in Ireland?