Memories…

 

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Dante Gabriel Rossetti

 

 

Memories are funny things, aren’t they? The way certain things suddenly pop into your head, and you think – hey, I know about that, and you remember.
I wonder what makes some memories surface and not others? You could say it’s down to something you have just heard or seen, but I know that’s not always the case.

Just lately, I have been remembering a specific time in my youth, and never realised before how that time must have influenced me.  Was it that threshold of childhood, the time you really start to think and question things? To imagine a future for yourself, that you won’t always be just idling along, not really caring if it snowed, depending on others to organise your life.

This particular time was when I lived in Kent, in a small village called Birchington, a few miles from Margate. I was about 8 or 9 years old, and up to that point, I didn’t really think about anything much. So much had happened to me that I had got into the habit of not questioning anything. Not much point really, as I knew I couldn’t change anything.

I was with foster parents by then with several other children, all from broken families; and surprisingly it was the first time I felt relaxed enough to appreciate the peace and quiet of the countryside, not to mention the freedom from all my mother’s problems.

Every Sunday we all went to church, and right outside the church door was an impressive gravestone. It was made of a beautiful piece of marble, and I thought the writing on it was very ornate and posh. I looked at it every Sunday for ages, when it suddenly struck me that this had to be someone quite famous. But why was he buried here in this tiny village?

The name on the stone was Dante Gabriel Rossetti  (1828- 1882), and I remember being very impressed by the sound of him, resolving to find out more about him. I was about the right age for romantic flights of fancy, and the more I discovered about this tortured man and the life he lived, the more intrigued I became. He was a poet and a painter, and some would say that he wasn’t very successful, but history will always remember him as a founder member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood with William Holman Hunt and John Everett Millais.

I learnt about Rossetti and how he ended up a recluse in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea after a nervous breakdown, finally retreating to Birchington for rehabilitation only to die less than a year later. Perhaps he should have spent more time in Kent, for it was making me feel better!  I secretly sympathised with the mess he had made of his life, determined that my life would be better than it had started out to be. I just needed to be old enough to set the wheels in motion.

So you see, I think Dante was my friend back then, right when I really needed one, guiding me to where I am today…

watermark xjj

Another memory of the Falls…

 

St. Nectan’s Falls

 

On one of our trips to Cornwall, we decided to seek out St Nectan’s Glen.

Not realising there was a short cut, we took the long walk through the fields along a small path to get to the Falls.  Single file small!

There were cliffs to one side, the other a sheer drop that was full of trees, nothing soft to break a fall. I moaned all the way there, to find the waterfall at the end, the most wonderful sight.

Jaye had stepped into her own paradise, her love of water. It was plain to see, her face lit up as if the sun shone where there was none.

We noticed people high on a ridge, at the top of the waterfall.

Jaye has a fear of heights, but that day she conquered it, to get as close as she could to the top of the Falls. I am not kidding when I say that there was barely room for a pigeon on this ridge. There we were, my entire family, along with any future grandchildren I might have, vanished in fear.

Squeezing past people coming down was the moment I realised just how dangerous this was. Even now, when I think about it, I remember the nightmares I suffered. I still believe we were fools to have climbed up there.

We found our way to the small hut where St Nectan lived out his days. We signed the visitor book. Back on the flat ground, I gave a sigh of relief. Never again, I said, more times than I can count.

The thing I remember most was the deafening sound of the water and how cold it felt. Would I go again?

Maybe, but taking the shortcut, and no climbing high…

 

 

(This was Anita’s memory of the day I posted about HERE  )

Living Light ~ Kirlian Photography

Nostalgia for the past is lingering this week, a hangover from all those lovely memories we posted last week.

The following image are negatives, I had to tape them to a window in order to photograph them…

 

 

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Anita’s Fingerprints

 

Living Light

 

The aura, the living light that surrounds each living thing on the planet.

Jaye and I had these photographs taken many moons ago,

too many to count, meaning to have them printed.

The other night they came to mind.

Of course, I asked Jaye to do something with them, and she did .

I cannot remember the name of the man we met at a Spiritualist Fair.

He invited us to his home where he took these images of our hands.

I think they should see the light of day after all this time…

AAAAA

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“Kirlian photography refers to a form of contact print photography, theoretically associated with high-voltage. It is named after Semyon Kirlian, who in 1939 accidentally discovered that if an object on a photographic plate is subjected to a strong electric field, an image is created on the plate.

In controversial metaphysical contexts, Kirlian photography, Kirlian energy, and so on, are sometimes referred to as just ‘Kirlian’. Kirlian made controversial claims that his method showed proof of supernatural auras, said to resemble a rough outline of the object like a colorful halo.

Kirlian proposed and promoted the idea that the resulting images of living objects were a physical proof of the life force or aura which allegedly surrounds all living beings. This claim was said to be supported by experiments by the Kirlians that involved cutting part of a leaf off – the Kirlian images of such leaves, it was said, still showed the leaves as whole, as though the cutting had never happened.”

 

 

Returning Time… #Poetry

 

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Image by jenanita01.com

 

Returning Time

The dead do not lie still.

Their long shadows

search those secret places, pulling your mind apart.

They hide behind damp patches on the wall

waiting for you to scrape through the layers of time.

Old newspapers beneath carpets

Lost photographs at the back of the drawer

A box full of records you can no longer play

Love letters you find.

That distant whisper lets you know

they have come back…

AAAAA

Golden Memories…

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Due, I suspect, to the arrival of our Great Grandchild three weeks ago, an air of nostalgia has descended upon our household. All the old photographs have come out of hiding, accompanied by much reminiscing.

We thought we would share some of these golden memories with you…

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It was like having a time machine, going back to all those times and remembering them as if they were yesterday…

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Do you ever take a walk down Memory Lane?

AAAAA

 

Christmas Snow… #Poetry

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

 

I remember Christmas with deep snow

Yellow streetlights glowing

Changing the way the world looked

Landmarks vanishing

You walk with remembering

Breaking through snow as if you know where to go

Each step crunching like rice pops

Beware of walking too close to trees

They like to dump their heavy load as you pass

Like mischievous children throwing snowballs

I remember nights with the full moon

Stars too many to count

I look down from my window and wonder

Did God make extra stars to fall with the snow?

That shines, sparkle, brighter than those above

Late night snow, reflecting heaven

Earlier footprints filled in as if some

Unseen hand had swept the carpet clean

As my mum does before we go to bed

I love this memory…

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London… #Poetry

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

 

Silent faces walk the streets of London

Never stopping, no smiles to give away

Tourists, cameras flashing

Strange sounds assail your ears

Like too many bird songs

Chalk art on pavements that should be seen

Trafalgar fountains spraying

With Nelson watching all

The bells of St Martin’s ring

To someone in need of prayer

Get your shoes shined here

Take a piece of London home

To say you visited here

Artist’s paintings hang on railings

Visit museums if that’s your thing

Ride an open top bus, hope there’s no rain

See the street vendors, card tricks

Stick pins in their flesh

Take the bus that sails on the water

Walk the pink roads, see Buck House

Give a nod to Queen Victoria as you pass

Stop for lunch, ride the London Eye

Before you take the train home…

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#Writephoto: Calm

https://scvincent.com/2018/11/08/thursday-photo-prompt-calm-writephoto/

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Image by scvincent.com

 

Happy Places

I live on a very busy street, we have traffic twenty-four seven.

However, I can close my eyes and within seconds, I am on top of Mount Snowden for the morning.

Later on, I will jump a cloud and sail past the moon, blowing kisses to my favourite orb. Then swim in the Milky Way on my way home. One last stop before work. I am off to the coral seas to swim with my favourite clownfish. They make me happy, therefore my mind is calm.

There are so many other doorways in my mind that I first learned to walk through while at school. The trick is choosing the right door for the moment. I have so many places where I can hide, if only for a few moments.

I know there must be many of you that do the same thing, especially when writing. The mind can take you to some strange places…

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#Writephoto: Glimmer

Thank you to Sue Vincent for another lovely #writephoto prompt!

 

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Image by Sue Vincent

 

 

Glimmer

My aunt once told me about an old legend about the woods in Sleepy Hollow, Hampshire. If you go there at midnight, you might be lucky to get a glimpse of your future. I thought it was nonsense, but would try anything once.

It was beautiful there. Fingers of moonlight danced between the trees, lighting the path before me, so far no strange manifestations, no flickering phantoms.

The deathly silence gave me a chill. Aunt and her strange stories, I told myself. Then I noticed a light shimmering to my left.  You could be forgiven for thinking someone had dropped a handful of sequins. Thing is, they hadn’t reached the ground. They danced between the trees, heading for the cliff edge where I didn’t like to go, not being good with heights. I had no choice; I had to follow the faint flickering as best I could. I knew it was leading me.

The trees now behind me, and there she stood, right on the edge of the cliff. Long dark hair, slender, wearing a pink summer dress. From what I could tell, she could be in her mid-twenties. Why was she contemplating her end?

What could I do?

I heard my aunt’s voice in my head,  Don’t shout, think of something. I noticed a large stick lying on the ground. Picking it up, I used it as a crutch. Lifting one leg, I moved closer so she could hear me.

“Miss, please, I am lost and hurt, I need your help.” I heard myself pleading, “Please turn.”

Once more, I called,” Miss, please…”

She turned.

The moment I saw her face, those dark eyes and tears on her cheeks, her soft lips trembling, I knew I would marry this vision, my own woodland nymph.

Slowly she moved towards me and helped me back to the road. I couldn’t let her go and I didn’t. Twenty years later and we are still married.

You see, I believe the light that led me to her was her soul, her spirit, calling for my help…

©Anita Dawes

 

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#Poetry: The Rose 1975

 

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The Rose

The rose stands in the garden bare

No petals on the ground, no perfume to be found.

Silver frost and sharp thorns adorn her now.

Cold and silent is the rain, Spring a long way off

Memories of long summer days, the heat of the sun

Soft dew on her face, the bees having fun.

Now the warmth has all gone, she stands naked and cold

Waiting patiently all winter, she slowly grows old.

She will not lose her beauty though time comes and goes

Each summer brings a miracle, a peaceful lovely rose…

©Jaye Marie1975