March 8, 2010
It’s all about the pen to paper contact, the way your mind connects with the writing implement, and the fluidity of the pen. How letters turn to words and words start to formulate sentences, and lastly the way sentences interpret thought. Writing is a wave of rhythm strung taut, then loose, depending on how much laundry you got. I try and think of writing as part of the law; rules and regulations apply to the “police” reader. And the writer is the “rogue”. It turns out I have sunk into a massive tide of organized crime, trying just to formulate sense out of this wild experience.
You try and share with this world what Baja is like and anything crime turns to an eruption of massive revolution, not even the most rigid law could enforce structure here. It’s huge, it’s exiting, exhilarating. It’s scary, I find myself hesitant because too much new all the time is almost impossible. I try and contain the amount of intake on a daily basis, but fail horribly, because even the rocks sing a different tune in Mexico. I thought I was well versed when it came to global cultures, but again it turns out that I know close to nothing. This place has vibes, baby vibes young fresh, abundant.
What I have to learn is just to let go. Structure is so obsolete here. Knowing what’s next is burnt out of us, along with the preconception of what should be next, it’s irrelevant. The beauty lies in the fact that we slowly learn to adapt, to come to terms with the pace and find solitude in living out of a tarp tent at 35 mph winds, eating with raw ingredients, learning on a minute-to-minute basis, hearing the ocean with your heartbeat.
From time to time, when I am sitting in my tent butt naked, covered and engraved from head to toe in sweet salt, or barefoot on sheets of ancient desert floor, I realize, I am here, writing from a little cove next to the beach. I am in Mexico. And there really truly is no place on this magnificent earth I would rather be.
By: Annabelle Ziegenhagen