Tag Archives: journey

Road Block…Friday Fictioneers.

A huge, amorphous rock with haunting facial features and a crutch, had parked itself right across my path and wouldn’t budge. Indeed, on second thoughts, it wasn’t a rock at all, but a humungus, black rain cloud metamorphosed into a rock just to spite me.

Screw positive thinking! It was no coincidence, that I was The Chosen One. Otherwise, why would a huge, black rock from outer space, suddenly land on MY PATH? It must’ve had geo-tracking honed to my very coordinates. Mum, was right. We’d been born under an unlucky star.

That’s when I saw her shoes sticking out.

…..

This has been another contribution for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff Fields.  PHOTO PROMPT© CEAyr.

Given my health problems, I have naturally pondered why bad things happen. Well, more than the bad stuff. More the really traumatic stuff, which also challenges our notions of fairness such as the death of a child. Sometimes, I know I’ve certainly felt targeted or singled out and that was hard to take.

These were some of the thoughts which went into my take on this week’s prompt.

What are your thoughts about why we experience adversity? I love to hear from you.

Hope you’re having a great week.

Best wishes,

Rowena

Amnesia…Paris ‘92

I’m digging around

at the back of my head,

but all neuro pathways

are hopelessly dead.

 

I can’t resurrect them.

Their heartbeats have stopped.

Help can’t get through.

All roads have been blocked.

 

I fumble around for a sign,

For some clues.

Return to the scene,

where I hope to find you.

writing in Paris

Writing on the Window Sill at the Hotel Henri IV July, 1992.

 

But almost a lifetime’s

flowed along down the Seine,

although ancient Pont Neuf

still looks much the same.

 

I return to the cafe

where you broke my heart.

Still bearing the scars,

you said weren’t your fault.

 

The City of Love,

Was my city of pain

where romance turned to heartbreak,

and sun turned to rain.

 

And now I am back there,

with my husband and kids

not saying a word

about that Summer we kissed.

 

Rowena Curtin

30th November, 2016.

 

A fictional poem, although the heartache was real.

I am currently writing about the two months I spent in Paris as a backpacker in 1992. That’s over 20 years ago now and the memories are very strained despite having my own diaries, photos and letters to refer to as well as the net.  I was making very good progress on this project a year ago. That was until the office roof was destroyed in a hailstorm and then the hard drive developed “complications” and not everything could be salvaged. So, I am starting over trying to re build the patchwork quilt almost from scratch and trying to cover the gaps. It’s incredibly difficult but I am thankfully making progress.

xx Rowena

The featured image was a selfie taken in the Luxenbourg Gardens, Paris, July 1992.

 

The Path…A Magnetic Poem.

Today, I was struck on the head by the magnetic muse in what could only be described as a “coup de foudre”.

In case you “ne comprendez pas”, that means falling in love at first sight. I thought falling in love, or becoming addicted, sounded much more dramatic in French.

Like a proverbial matchmaker,  Merril D Smith  introduced me writing magnetic poetry online at http://play.magneticpoetry.com/ It’s so much fun. I chose the nature theme and I was thrilled with the results. I felt my poetry gained very rich symbolism and I put images together which I never would’ve thought of combining before, yet made such sense and expanded my vision exponentially.

Dare I ask you what you think?

Well, here goes:

The Path

Shine moon spirit.

Listen.

Breathe.

My soul is withered.

I wander down a lonely path.

Every daffodil Spring,

the bright, blue bird walks

through the fresh earth.

Garden tendrils rustled.

Then some seed said:

“Use intuition.

There’s a sanctuary.”

Secret winds murmur:

“Climb the ancient mountain.

Know her peace.

Rest.

Leave moss be.

Make song.”

Behold,

I thrive.

Rowena Newton

Magnetic Poetry 23rd November, 2016.

Have you been struck by the magnetic muse? I’d love to hear how you went.

xx Rowena

An Ant’s Road Through the Roses.

the ants’ road
from peaks of clouds
to here.

Issa

When I saw this luscious red rose, I immediately metamorphosed into an ant crawling through it’s mountainous red petals until it finally reached all those golden pollen at the centre of the universe and slept.

Come to think of it, do ants actually sleep? Have you ever seen an ant taking a nap?

Just a thought…

xx Rowena

The Fork in the Tree.

What do you see when you look at this tree?

Initially, I saw the fork in the road but when I look at it now I see a very flexible, headless dancer whose toe is pointing up into the clouds. Mind you, when I came up with that image, I’d chopped the top off the photo on my laptop screen. or, maybe, the dancer hasn’t shaved her legs?

Unfortunately, I also noticed this tree isn’t looking very healthy.While it is deciduous, it’s neighbours are all sprouting Spring leaves and there isn’t so much as a bud on this one. I’m hoping my suspicions are wrong but is this tree deceased?

“C’mon! Grow, baby. Grow!…Just a leaf? A sign? A glimmer of hope?”

A Jumbled Path.JPG

My Pathway is Lost in a  Jumble of Twigs. Where am I going?

Meanwhile, looking further up the tree, I spotted “chaos central” where there is no clear-cut fork in the road… the A & B options. Rather, these twigs graphically portrayed:

“My life is such a Mess!” or “I’m soooo confused”.

There are no patterns and no pathway through. No exit from the maze but at least there is no minotaur but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a spider’s next in there…a tribe of Huntsmen.

When you have complicated decisions to make, what do you do? How do you choose which way to go? Toss a coin? Phone a friend? Write about it? Make a list of pros and cons?

I use a range of these strategies but what I’ve finally come to appreciate the hard way, is that action outranks procrastination. That even if you make the wrong decision, that’s better than doing nothing at all. Procrastination is not my friend and yet…

Hey, I just went chasing up a quote to illuminate this post and this was the first quote I found and it was so about this tree. It must be a sign:

“Never cut a tree down in the wintertime. Never make a negative decision in the low time. Never make your most important decisions when you are in your worst moods. Wait. Be patient. The storm will pass. The spring will come.”

Robert H. Schuller

Perhaps, this tree should be renamed: “The Philosopher’s Tree”. Well, it’s certainly got me thinking and fired up a few brain cells. Dare I say, cleared out some “dead wood”?

Surely, there’s life in the old tree yet!

xx Rowena

Lost & Found in Newcastle.

On Monday, I had the joy of being lost and found in Newcastle, finding out what it’s like to go off the grid and follow my senses. See where they’d take me.

Have you tried this yourself lately?

Letting yourself go, casting your goals, focus, and planning all to the wind and seeing what happens? Rather than planning your life down to the millisecond, shifting gears and exploring the spaces in between the lines and finding out where you end up?

As much as we might ignore the space in between the lines, the gaps between numbers and words, they’re there for a reason. After all, without these spaces, nothing makes sense. So, you could say that space is just as important as the words and all the stuff we cram into each day.

While you probably feel “too busy” to go off the grid, maybe you’re too busy not to. Perhaps, it’s long past time to stop the clock! Not unsurprisingly, if you’re living for work, you can end up struggling to live.Yet, what does it take for us to change?

Personally, driving Mum’s Taxi often takes me off the grid, launching me into all sorts of adventures. Adventures more along the lines of catastrophe, drama, and nail-biting stress as I get lost, run late and also have to round up recalcitrant kids. I’ve definitely had easier jobs…including brain surgery but I was the patient, not the surgeon.

However, taxi driving has its rewards.

On Monday, taxi duties took me up Newcastle. My daughter had a 3 hour rehearsal at The Junction Public School, which left me free to explore. Although I have friends and family in Newcastle, I didn’t get my act together and decided to wing it. Let adventure find me.

Well, after loads of “adventure” trying to find the school, I parked the car and set out on foot. I had directions on how to walk to the beach but spotted a cafe across the road. It was love at first sight. The way you feel when you spot your one true love across a crowded room and know they’re the one, as you share that stolen glance. Yet, at this stage, I didn’t know why. That connection is beyond explanation…almost spiritual. Meant to be.

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Just like those crowded room experiences, my cafe radar has let me down before and I hate paying for food I could’ve cooked better myself at home. I’m particularly fussy about my pet fave, chocolate cake, conducting full length interviews trying to find “the one”. Quite often, I bow out and order something else. I know what I like. There is no compromise! I’m a chocolate cake connoisseur!

So while I was checking out the shops, I decided to ask a local where to go. They confirmed my suspicions and recommended I go to  Talulah, which it turns out, is Mum’s cousin’s restaurant. What a coincidence! I’ve heard about Talulah at family weddings right from conception to birth and now, we were about to meet for the very first time. How exciting!

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The view from my table.

 

Is that what guided my footsteps there? Some sense of family? I don’t know. It’s on a corner block and there’s a soldier standing right out the front, which certainly commands wistful attention. Yet, how did I know from across the road, without even seeing inside, that this place would be so very me? Me… in such a personal way, before I even stepped in?

This happens to me a lot. That sixth sense, and a feeling of being led somewhere by forces unknown. Be that a guardian angel, God, subliminal messaging or plain good business. After all, if you want a restaurant to succeed, you’ve got to get them through the door. Food is secondary.

I walk through a series of cosy outdoor lounges heading out to the bathroom before I find a seat. This is when my camera finger first starts to switch as I spot two vintage ballet pictures on the wall. After my first adult ballet class last week, these stand out like neon signs. As crazy as it sounds, I have to take a photo. It’s like I’ve just walked in and found my own personal secret hanging on the wall and it feels so uncanny. How did they know?

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Dancing in My Dreams.

By the way, if word gets out that I’m taking photos in toilets, I’ll soon be heading off on an entirely different journey off to the psychiatrist! This will make particular sense if you’ve read The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion!  That said, being creative I’d soon slip through that legal loophole and be back out on the streets. Not guilty!

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Anyway, I set up camp with a short story magazine, my notebook and a cappuccino. It’s a gloriously sunny, Winter’s day and I’m captivated by the autumn leaves still falling from the skeletal tree out the front. Deciduous trees can have it rough in parts of Australia better suited to native evergreens. The poor tree’s brain tells it to lose its leaves, yet their thermostat fights back. So instead of naked tree skeletons during Winter, these poor confused trees are still losing leaves in Spring.

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The Piano

That’s when I noticed the old piano sitting in the corner. We have an old piano at home, which I’m finding out is something of a museum piece. These days, you can’t even give an old piano away. This piano is even older than ours with brass candle sticks on the front and ornate detailing in the wood. While it feels like murder and an act of cruel betrayal, I’m getting to the point where we’ll be sending our piano to the tip. Throwing out even a mediocre piano, feels like murder. I come from a family of pianists where pianos were precious. Yet, I’m almost as fussy about pianos as I am about chocolate cake. It needs to make way for the new.

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Anyway, this piano starts speaking to me and I’m writing a macabre short story about a piano left outside beside the road. The candles are flickering on and off in the morning mists. A crow lands on the candle stick, turning it into a perch and it goes on from there.

I don’t usually write fiction so I was pretty stoked and thought this cafe made the perfect writer’s den…very inspiring!

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Being so engrossed in the piano, falling leaves and the soldier, time was slipping away. I was waiting for the lunch menu to start but before I knew it, I was needing to rush and only had time for a main, missing out on my much wanted dessert. I ordered sweet potato falafel with salad. I love falafel and sweet potato and was interested to try this twist on a familiar dish. It was great and also came with a salad I really liked.

By the way, I apologise if you were wanting a more detailed interpretation of the meal. I always struggle with that. Writing about food is incredibly difficult without sounding like a wanker (excuse the French) and I’m better at describing how it made me feel, than the taste. All I’ll say is that this complex mix of beautiful flavours more than exceeded my expectations and I’d love to take the chef/cook home. I’d graciously resign.

By the way, I’d even let them drive Mum’s Taxi. Aren’t I nice?!!

Meanwhile, I’d exit stage left and put my feet up. Putting your feet up can be incredibly difficult but someone’s got to do it.

It might as well be me!

Have you been to Newcastle and have any favourite spots? Or, have you discovered any fascinating nooks and crannies lately? I’d love to hear your tales!

Meanwhile, it’s time for me to pick up my daughter and head home. You can read about my efforts navigating through Newcastle here: Driving To Newcastle: Mum’s Taxi Seeks Gold.

xx Rowena

Telulah is located at 52 Glebe Road,The Junction, Newcastle (corner of Kenrick Street and Glebe Road).

Y-Sailing To Byzantium, William Butler Yeats: #atozchallenge.

Sailing To Byzantium

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
– Those dying generations – at their song,
The salmon‐falls, the mackerel‐crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

Byzantium

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing‐masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

William Butler Yeats

Through the use of various poetic techniques, Yeats’s “Sailing to Byzantium” describes the metaphorical journey of a man pursuing his own vision of eternal life as well as his conception of paradise.

Written in 1926 (when Yeats was 60 or 61), “Sailing to Byzantium” is Yeats’ definitive statement about the agony of old age and the imaginative and spiritual work required to remain a vital individual even when the heart is “fastened to a dying animal” (the body). Yeats’s solution is to leave the country of the young and travel to Byzantium, where the sages in the city’s famous gold mosaics could become the “singing-masters” of his soul. He hopes the sages will appear in fire and take him away from his body into an existence outside time, where, like a great work of art, he could exist in “the artifice of eternity.” In the final stanza of the poem, he declares that once he is out of his body he will never again appear in the form of a natural thing; rather, he will become a golden bird, sitting on a golden tree, singing of the past (“what is past”), the present (that which is “passing”), and the future (that which is “to come”).

Interpretation

Yeats wrote in a draft script for a 1931 BBC broadcast:

I am trying to write about the state of my soul, for it is right for an old man to make his soul, and some of my thoughts about that subject I have put into a poem called ‘Sailing to Byzantium’. When Irishmen were illuminating the Book of Kells, and making the jeweled croziers in the National Museum, Byzantium was the centre of European civilization and the source of its spiritual philosophy, so I symbolize the search for the spiritual life by a journey to that city.[1]”

Wikipaedia