Here's a lil piece on memory I did back in June for a Pulp piece I edited! I'm lookin' back into it to see my writing strengths and weaknesses back in the summer, and I still think it's a hella good example of cool memory-centered writing I've done! I'm working on a piece right now about past homes and I'm still lookin' to this for inspiration! xoxo, Essine
I remember first being in awe of the blue mountains of Eastern Oregon inside the Interpretive Center, a museum like building atop a winding road. It taught about the Oregon trail, the pioneers, but my favorite thing was looking out of binoculars, looking out of the gigantic window at the start of the center, and seeing the mountains right in front of me, towering over fields of grass and roads that led to places I had no idea existed.The rolling brown hills of stunted Oregon grass sat on my left, and my right held the deep blue of humongous mountains that felt so close and yet too huge to fathom; that made me feel like the clouds were so immediate I could touch them; those mountains that seemed to kiss the deep blue of Oregon skies and sing like children in a choir.
As we traveled down the snaky coil of road from the center back into town, the mountains became the distant thing of memories and faded into the pastels of run down houses and the dirt of a town that hadn't changed since the ’60s. The blues of the rocks that seemed to touch the clouds became my distant thoughts and faded into the legends of my past. Someday I will change and sleep and fade; the mountains will still sit, steadfast, between mist and some kind of heaven (if there is one), until the morning sun kills them and turns them into settled dust.