Trout Fishing In America

It was a beautiful day. After Steven's graduation, we all adjourned to his apartment for a fiesta. Fajitas, black bean salad, Dos Equis to spare. The sun was shining, the sky was blue - sapphire, in fact. I drove the young ones back to our house and returned to Knoxville to watch the movie making. Trout Fishing In America was being filmed in the downtown area, and onlookers were encouraged to attend. Some years later, I sat in a downtown radio station office watching the finished movie on cable, pointing out which parts were Knoxville to anyone who would listen, remembering that wonderful day.


Memories. They're such warm and lovely things.


Only, this never happened. Well, to be specific, the graduation happened and the fiesta happened, but all the movie-making, movie-watching most definitely did not.

It was all a dream.


And yet so very, very real. These fake memories felt so treasured and worn. The act of remembering felt honest, the feelings evoked felt true.


But still, it was all a dream.


Freaky, man, freaky. Like, I-could-believe-I-have-a-parallel-existence freaky.

Gonna have to go find that book now.