Immaculate Conception
During church I had a vision. It was indeed nothing short of an idea, and a picture in my head, which is a vision (especially because I was at church when I had it). This immaculate conception of an idea, or vision, (as I am calling it) was to find my old writing spot, in the far Northwest corner in Hyde Park.
Every possible morning I would steal away from the socialities of the Palace Court Centre with my notebook and ear phoned music. On a little bench, placed in the middle of a small, private, gated garden, I would write for hours. My imagination let me believe that I was a Virginia Woolf in the making. London has inspired artists of all genres and I can see why. There is something romantic in the air here.
What is it?
Fog was hanging around in the park as I set out for my destination. Vance and Olivia charged on through Marble Arch, past the speaker's corner, where they saw someone on a soap box, back to the hotel to change.
Soon I came across the gorgeous Albert memorial. I think it was being cleaned when I was here last because I don't remember it, and it is not forgettable.This monument made me think a bit about the British Empire and it's history. It conquered most of the planet, it seems, just to give it all back in the forthcoming centuries. In Belgium, I thought I had lost my bizarre curiosity for statues (Mannequin Pis having nearly killed it) but the Albert memorial had me spellbound for a few minutes. Bizarre statue fascination. Check.
By the water I found the memorial for Princess Diana. I imagine in the summer it is a hot spot full of tourists and kids jumping in and out of the water. Today was quite solemn with a few cold visitors, triumphant that they found it in the huge park. At the bottom of the memorial, the water comes to a calm before exiting through small gates. I thought about how her life must have been similar to the water (the artist did a great job in conveying it as such) so fast, so crazy. Then in one moment, it was peaceful. And over.
Making my way down from the long river I passed the Peter Pan statue and the Italian ponds. I watched dozens of dogs roaming the park sans leashes. Why can't American's give up the leash? These were the happiest dogs I have ever seen. I want that for my dogs! Now that my mother has a say about what goes on in Provo, I might make a suggestion. One Scottish Terrier chased a squirrel up and down a tree. He had a little crowd of people watching, and if he would of thought to put out a cap, he could've made some pounds.
The dreariness of the park started to lift as I walked past the Black Lion Gate and over to where my inspirational garden once stood. Once stood. Once stood but is now the Princess Diana Children's Playground. This means that if ever I am a famous writer of the feminine variety a plaque will be hard to place just where I did my writing in Hyde Park. Perhaps in between the slide and the shipwrecked boat's anchor?
I mulled over it with fish and chips later with Vance and Olivia.
Maybe I was only destined to blog.
Maybe that is what my vision was trying to tell me, after all.
I sat down on my bench and remembered those inspirational days, and some of the essays I wrote. For awhile I had a mental conversation with that study abroad student, as if I had tubed back in time. She was sitting there, on my bench, working on some composition for writing class. I told her how happy I was, how much I still love to write, and beautiful life can be (I also told her to ditch her current boyfriend, but I doubt she listened -she didn't do much of that).
Luckily my bench hasn't been bought by a patron and marked with a plaque of some sort. For my big writing career -this gives me hope. I am thinking that a bronze of me sitting on that bench won't be too much to ask. I'll give London all the credit -for being my muse of sorts. Maybe not all the credit, because another of my muses is across the Atlantic and thinking of seeing him tomorrow impels me to pen a sonnet. Or two. (Sonnets are bronze worthy, are they not?)
Every possible morning I would steal away from the socialities of the Palace Court Centre with my notebook and ear phoned music. On a little bench, placed in the middle of a small, private, gated garden, I would write for hours. My imagination let me believe that I was a Virginia Woolf in the making. London has inspired artists of all genres and I can see why. There is something romantic in the air here.
What is it?
Fog was hanging around in the park as I set out for my destination. Vance and Olivia charged on through Marble Arch, past the speaker's corner, where they saw someone on a soap box, back to the hotel to change.
Soon I came across the gorgeous Albert memorial. I think it was being cleaned when I was here last because I don't remember it, and it is not forgettable.This monument made me think a bit about the British Empire and it's history. It conquered most of the planet, it seems, just to give it all back in the forthcoming centuries. In Belgium, I thought I had lost my bizarre curiosity for statues (Mannequin Pis having nearly killed it) but the Albert memorial had me spellbound for a few minutes. Bizarre statue fascination. Check.
By the water I found the memorial for Princess Diana. I imagine in the summer it is a hot spot full of tourists and kids jumping in and out of the water. Today was quite solemn with a few cold visitors, triumphant that they found it in the huge park. At the bottom of the memorial, the water comes to a calm before exiting through small gates. I thought about how her life must have been similar to the water (the artist did a great job in conveying it as such) so fast, so crazy. Then in one moment, it was peaceful. And over.
Making my way down from the long river I passed the Peter Pan statue and the Italian ponds. I watched dozens of dogs roaming the park sans leashes. Why can't American's give up the leash? These were the happiest dogs I have ever seen. I want that for my dogs! Now that my mother has a say about what goes on in Provo, I might make a suggestion. One Scottish Terrier chased a squirrel up and down a tree. He had a little crowd of people watching, and if he would of thought to put out a cap, he could've made some pounds.
The dreariness of the park started to lift as I walked past the Black Lion Gate and over to where my inspirational garden once stood. Once stood. Once stood but is now the Princess Diana Children's Playground. This means that if ever I am a famous writer of the feminine variety a plaque will be hard to place just where I did my writing in Hyde Park. Perhaps in between the slide and the shipwrecked boat's anchor?
I mulled over it with fish and chips later with Vance and Olivia.
Maybe I was only destined to blog.
Maybe that is what my vision was trying to tell me, after all.
November 28, 2005
Immaculate Conception II
I couldn't leave the thought alone last night that I had not gone south enough in the park to find my writing spot. I awoke for an early morning walk in the park. To my surreal happiness (can I put those words together? of course I can, it's my blog) I walked right to the spot, not far off from the round pond. Forgive me late Princess Diana for accusing you of putting your playground over my sacred, and secret location.I sat down on my bench and remembered those inspirational days, and some of the essays I wrote. For awhile I had a mental conversation with that study abroad student, as if I had tubed back in time. She was sitting there, on my bench, working on some composition for writing class. I told her how happy I was, how much I still love to write, and beautiful life can be (I also told her to ditch her current boyfriend, but I doubt she listened -she didn't do much of that).
Luckily my bench hasn't been bought by a patron and marked with a plaque of some sort. For my big writing career -this gives me hope. I am thinking that a bronze of me sitting on that bench won't be too much to ask. I'll give London all the credit -for being my muse of sorts. Maybe not all the credit, because another of my muses is across the Atlantic and thinking of seeing him tomorrow impels me to pen a sonnet. Or two. (Sonnets are bronze worthy, are they not?)
