If you strike a thorn or rose,
Keep a-goin'!
If it hails or if it snows,
Keep a-goin'!
'Taint no use to sit an' whine
When the fish ain't on your line;
Bait your hook an' keep a-tryin'-- Keep a-goin'!
When I was a kid, my grandfather bet all of his rambunctious little grandkids that if we could memorize this one poem (and all four stanzas), we’d get a shiny, new hunk of silver; also known as 25 cents.
Through time, the lesson has remained invaluable (Thanks, Pop), and this little Irish ditty looped through my head about seventeen times this week. For the first time, the travel writers of the American persuasion tried our hands at different styles through various workshops; trying to, at last, prove ourselves as something other than a group of cute wide-eyed kids.
For the most part, we spent the sessions analyzing published travel works, and taking a stab at conquering the feared obstacle of all writers who love adjectives: the word count. The workshops were easy to do at first; tell why you like the article at hand, what makes you intrigued, what skills do you see at play, etc. But then, the game turned fierce.
“Now,” said my savvy instructor, who spent ten years travelling the world and diving into seriously dangerous situations in Africa, India and Iraq, “It's your turn!”
And so, with this cheerful dare, we were asked to write our own pieces, based on places we’ve never been, or places from our past. I wrote an attractive travel piece on Cranston, Rhode Island (Dels and the beaches were my selling point), advertising the city inbetween the capital and the sea.
But, in the hours and days that followed our beginning enthusiam, there were a lot of criticisms, a lot of chuckles, a lot of pointers, and some disappointments. For the first time since landing in Sydney (and um, ever), I had a group of people, who had no attachment to me , telling me how they really felt about my writing. Although the criticism wasn't too harsh yet,the openness and vulnerability felt exhilarating; and scary as hell.
Of course, I'm here to challenge myself, doubt myself, and see how I can change, or impress or disappoint with style, technique, etc. But, to be honest, the best part about the writing workshops was being able to discover my characters, and finding out who lives in my memory. With the millions of people that have passed my way, all the adventures, and conversations, there are certain people who stick out in my mind that I never thought I’d get to see again. But, in literature, they are alive and well, and right there with me. In one workshop, I got to revive my excruciatingly awkward trip from London to Paris, where an older Jehovah Witness tried to sell me his son (and convert my little soul). I got to relish in another instance from my childhood, where I got lost along the rocks at Bonnet beach, and struggled with the sinking feeling that I may never find my way home. The scolding of every adult who said “Kids, avoid the point!!” ran through my head...but after reliving the memories, I have to say thanks to Tim, Tom and Ang for never listening. In story writing, people can come back from the dead, and love stories can live on forever. Brief moments can define a lifetime, and the past can be looked at through a microscope, or given a little sparkle. Ordinary can be extraordinary...and moments gone by can come back to stay with you in 150 words, forever.
On a very personal note, this experience has been full of trying to reconcile the past with the present, and what I'm finding is this fresh world of Australia is full of old friends.
...
Friday: To start our four day weekend, Annie and I took advantage of the beautiful sunny day (a rarity here in the rainy season), and finally headed to the Royal Botanical Gardens by the Royal Opera House. We spent our sunny afternoon, strolling through the mish-mash of Botanical beauties, including some Chinese roses, tropical greenhouses, “An Australian Rainforest” Trail (although I got lost in this, and wasn’t looking at the plants), and of course, met some exotic animals who were just frolicking among the greens. It was a bizarre place, really. Grecian statues, parrots, bats, and pelican-like birds were all within the same vicinity, and at times, I couldn’t tell if I was in Rome, China, Greece or Australia. A better name for might be “The Conglomeration of Exotic and Pretty Things.” But, the Botanical Gardens were peaceful, and a quiet green escape to the sounds and crowds of the cityscape. As an added bonus to a delicious lunch and sunbath on the rocks by the water, Annie and I also searched and found the Gallery of New South Wales, where I finally found my common ground, and a lot of my old Friends. The sinking feeling that I felt in the few days about “I don’t really get this..” had started to re-emerge while we wandered through the endless Gardens, but in the Gallery, I found that sense of home.
(these are bats, "flying foxes," hanging from a tree)
First of all, the Gallery of New South Wales is stunning, with high white walls, classical fixtures, and long hallways that are full of mystery. On one side, there was the high European section, along with landscape painters, portraitures, and the works of the Impressionists. On the other, a huge section of proudly hung Australian art—both modern and historical. As I strolled along, I saw a lot of similarities to the British landscapes, and French Impressionism, but the free-flowing, indepedent ideology of the Austrailians reflected strongly in their art , as it was completely their own style. One particular section reminded me of works done by John Singer Sargent, my old American favorite. But, as I analyzed the bold works of the Australian, J.P. Russell, I found a new favourite with a style all his own.
And feeling at home, once again, I strolled into the gallery of European art, and a gallery of English painters. There, I was greeted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and immediately snapped back to Burlington House, where I could smell the walls of the Royal Academy. Thomas Lawrence also made an appearance, as well as Claude, Gainsborough and Constable. I marveled at the never-seen Rembrandt portrait (there are so damn many), and a few Reubens which served as a pleasant surprise. I moved to the Monets, the Cèzannes, and lived in Paris, if only for a little while.
But, it was the Victorian exhibition that really sold it for me. Rightly titled, “Victorian Visions,” this exquisite temporary collection held one painting that I first saw in my Freshman year, visited in the Lourve my Sophomore year, and learned the true tale of the subjects in my Junior year. In its haunting sadness, on the back wall of the gallery, was one of my favorite love stories of classical literature: Francesco and Paola from Dante’s Inferno. I only studied the story this year, and truth be told, I didn’t even know who the subjects were of this painting when I fell in love with it, until I met it again in the Gallery of New South Wales. To my pleasant surprise, I had loved them all along, even before I knew the tale of their tragic tie in the Underworld. In finding this painting, I felt a wave of completeness, and my passions came into Poetry, Painting, and Paris.
In these old friends, I found a sense of home again in Australia. Something felt very “full circle,” and this coincidental visit brought about a sense of familiarity, and again, new beginnings.
After all, Australia is a place for new beginnings in its very history, fiber and being. It’s a place for thought, a place for wonder, a place of struggle, and a place of rebirth; all and all, it’s the best place for me to be right at this moment. No matter where they may come from, there will always be obstacles in life; emotional, educational, geographical… but the important thing to remember is that you always have to Keep a ‘Goin. If it hails, or if it snows…get right back on the horse, and start again.
(I’ll elaborate about the horse in the next entry).
Happy Travels,
xx
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