This morning I woke up before dawn to take two of my four younger siblings to the airport. It was about 6:30 when I got home and, having turned my brain on for the day, I couldn't go back to bed like I normally would. It was such a fresh, crisp morning and something about having been woken from sleep and thrown into the day gave me a heightened sense of memory as it often does. I don't really know where this came from because I haven't written anything like poetry in ages. But it felt good, and I hope that at least a few people can relate to this abstract conglomeration of memories. It is for my grandmother Helen.
Midway is a rolling swell in the space between two mountains.
It is a half way point between two places, a hiding place to seek shelter in between.
It is a place you go when you need to remember things you’ve forgotten,
Like how water sounds rushing over rocks and moss, and how it feels
to walk through stickered grass to get there.
Midway is a sunrise waking you up; a cold dawn, and a dear friend.
It is horses roaming unbridled and with out shoe through a grove of russian olives.
It is wind, hail, thunder and lightning, glaring at you through tall black windows and a powerless night.
Midway is gnome houses and prophet neighbors; long bike rides and longer walks.
It is skinny dipping, hot and cold and making a pancake breakfasts with Great Grandmother Lilly’s griddle.
Midway is a relic, a sanctuary, a pilgrimage.
Midway is my childhood and my adulthood as one.
Tuesday, May 18
So...I think…it is time…for me to blog. I think I'll call it...therapy. A way to clear my head of the random of things that constantly run in and out and around and through it. The constant updating of my facebook status has been getting… little out of hand. What I really want is not to make a quick mention of life and what it is at a given and usually random moment, but to tell a story of life. Not necessarily of my life, but simply my view of it with some documentation and commentary on the things I find myself doing and enjoying. And maybe, possibly, selfishly, through sharing stories, find that the world is not quite as insane and isolated as it usually feels with my self in it from behind this metal and plastic box in front of me. If you should choose to indulge me in this experiment, be forewarned. I have a firm and clear belief that what comes out of one's mind onto a page should be the most honest extension of themselves. I am incapable of telling a lie in written words. I have a hard time even watering things down a bit, which has on occasion gotten me in some trouble. Often I am overly emotional in writing as well as in life, and I usually find that irrationality is one of the most enjoyable parts of being human. I do not always know who I am at a given moment. Writing for me is nothing more or less than the exploratory art of figuring that out. It's a matter of putting some words on a page, mixing them up a bit, changing a few words, and then standing back to see if it feels true. I make no excuses for being who I am. I won't be doing this for an audience. This is an experiment in being myself and in believing that being who I am is okay. The End.
by Andrea K. H. Agüin at 1:48 AM
- ► 2012 (29)
- ► 2011 (18)