AWOL Exercise #15 Responses

A Voyage around my Room

In 1790 a young French soldier called Xavier Le Maistre was imprisoned for 42 days in Turin for fighting an illegal duel. To stop himself getting bored, he wrote a book about a journey round that room, as if it was a travel journal. You can read the entire book online here:

A Voyage around my Room

And here’s the beginning of one chapter from this wee book:

All you need to do is write your own piece, either documentary, fictions, poem or story, which bear the same title, or roughly the same title: ‘A Voyage round my Room’ 

Notice how he writes as if he is on a journey, a voyage into the unknown known places of his life? Enjoy!

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Voyage of the cave   by Jodi Glass

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My Own Rainbow by lotty

My Own Rainbow by lotty 28th Jun 2020

From a young age I was sent on a journey into the dark unknowing forbidding forest filled with tangles of disapproving trees that have high-pitched mocking laughter.

I was unprepared, with no torch or light to hold my hand and guide me through this frightening, lonely fight as my insides became enveloped in the long and cold night.

For many miles I twisted and turned onto to soggy ground in which I was burned, still walking I passed by rotten carcasses and bones of failed relationships. Hopefully I have given myself some useful tips, knowing that I will have to come out of here and get rid of every shred of fear.

 At last as I tripped up, the final hell – my true self – could not remain still. I moved through the clearing into the light. Finally I had won the battle and the fight against ignorance and bigotry. Hopefully not too long now till I meet that special girl who left my soul feeling high up. I can fly free, dancing like a kite, not hiding in the shadows out of sight.

I can now say hello to my own rainbow.

lotty 28th Jun 2020

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Journey of the Imagination   by elisheva katz

Journey of the Imagination

Black walls, dressed with dead red roses in empty wine bottles, threaded worn books, mismatched boots, grandfather clock, tick-toc! tic-toc! tic-toc! The sad cello playing in the corner timeless music of old, without a pause for breath. A wolf by her side to keep her heart warm, a wolf by her side, her sole companion. This was the way it had been since the night of the spinning tornado, when the beast rode on the back of the storm, coming to destroy her, to steal her light, steal her mind. It is true to say she had been in lockdown long before the invisible war of the world.
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Day in, day out, she sat in her own fairytale. Blood stained lips. Clothed in silk scarfs draped around her body, which she wore naked, scars covering her inside. The disease that the beast had put into her, had isolated her from the world. But it was with the magnificent imagination that God gave her, that allowed her to escape that disease. With her imagination, wolf and she together would go anywhere that their hearts led them, be whoever they wanted to be. In her imagination, for that time, her and wolf were alive, experiencing life, they were living!
Just like, for all of those years, from her bedroom window, she had watched others live.
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Written by elisheva katz
June 30th 2020

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 My Room is a Tardis….   by Kathy Low

 My Room is a Tardis…. 

                   TIME:     is easily transcended in my room. Memory does this, shifting, elusive, though it is, a few decades past, am image …..memory or imagination? …..cretaceous or the landscape of ice age. See too the time ahead and a boat on the river….

                   AND        then there is love….the traces and evidences,  the chair that is empty, yet not, imprints of the ones sitting else-where yet still also here. Their  quantum imprints.  The hares in a January field….christmas  card in July still on the bookshelf, beside the tales and theories and a hundred people’s perceptions and figments of their imaginations… The photograph, evocative image, people caught in a fragment of time…

                   RELATIVE       that’s Einstein and Feynman and all that lot, for putting all that stuff about space and time travel and e  and mc~2 into my mind and my  room and the shiftingness of it all ….and the aunties and the cousins and my twin sister Pat….

                   DIMENSION       18ft × 15ft ×10ft. A finite volume, containing an in-finite universe. Star Trek and Beyond Buzz….

                   IN     och,  such a tiny word with big ideas…and a strange message about in-clusion  in space, in time,  in the room, in the world, in the mind, not all in the mind, in-tell-igence, in the song, in the singer…

                  SPACE   and so it goes on and on and is in-finite (again). Room for my stuff, and no space on the shelf. Room for a hug. and no-one here. A space where I will have been when I am gone, gone from here…. but that’s another story….

Kathy Low

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A Journey Around My Room   by Peter Marshall

A Journey Around My Room

Becoming easily distracted has its virtues.  A few weeks ago, I’d dived into a thin, glossy-papered booklet of self-published essays.  Quite tasteless, except for the binding.  After that, I ploughed through an old paperback science fiction novel, the rough pages with flecks of wood chip showing; the paper displaying its brown and brittle age.  I lingered a while out of reverence to the antiquity of each sheet and marvelled at the other-era audacity of a full-page cigarette advert printed on the inside rear cover.  Almost without stopping, I found my next weighty tome to savour.  It was a well thumb crime fiction novel with a few pale strands of desiccated tobacco embedded like some long-forgotten pressed flower into the words.  I kept a wide berth around these and tried to avoid the greasy smudge marks at the edge of various pages where I imagine the tension of the story must have made the last owner grip hot sweaty fingers tightly to the open book.  

Sometimes, for a bit of ‘devil may care’ existence, I will travel backwards a whole volume, threading my way through the loops and whorls of the numbers in the corners of the pages until I penetrate the front cover, none the wiser.  Every now and again, perhaps a few chapters past a sticky, enticing reminder of a plum or strawberry jam sandwich, I’ll find an old bus ticket, slid in to keep a place; a succulent reminder of a huge world beyond my room.  It’s not an easy life, being a boring woodworm.

2020 07 02    Peter Marshall

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