I brought in several rolls of film to be developed a couple weeks ago, and got back an eclectic set of images--some from Norway, some from home, some from Saskatchewan, and a handful that appeared to have been taken years ago, by my brother, in New Hampshire and Wisconsin and maybe Vermont. And it's fun, to take short and long trips backwards in time to these other places. But as I keep reminding myself, I can only be in one place at a time.
It doesn't always feel that way, though. I took a quick trip up the mountain (that's Mount Greylock) yesterday and I found myself walking, pack on my shoulders, through Massachusetts and Norway at once: lush green woods on either side, heavy with rain and mist, and yet in my mind's eye I could see the sparser mountains of Norway. I didn't want to be back there (not yet, anyway)--I've enjoyed being home and reacquainting myself with New England's woods. But for a few moments Norway was as vivid to me as the real landscape around me, and I suppose it was a reminder of something I wrote in this blog a few weeks ago: I carry these places in the strange pockets of my mind and they will emerge like negatives from forgotten rolls of film; almost as real as life, even if they aren't.
What's a picture for? Or a memory? I'm asking, because I've got a hoard of both.
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