Mr. Joyce Takes on the World

I apologize for the long delay in blog entries. It’s been a hectic time; work, school, writing things that aren’t my blog, and also trying to stay coherent through it all. Needless to say, I’ve felt trapped between that state that is neither waking nor sleeping. I believe it’s called, “Being undead.” Neither blood nor rum compels me to rise. It’s a mix of tea and stubbornness. I’m taking time out from the novel that will not end, so that I can make a Halloween post. I wasn’t sure what to write this year. I told a ghost story last year; one that my mother shared. This year, I have no ghosts to share. Sort of… Like most people interested in the macabre my exposure started at a young age. Like anyone else I don’t focus on it twenty-four-seven. I have a variety of interests, and yet I will often find myself gravitating toward the Gothic, the ghoulish, and ghostly. Partly it’s because so much of history is wrapped up in such things. But also, because it’s part of my ...

House of Jane--Part Two:  Cassandra, Cassandra, and Sir Richard             After I finished at Jane’s house I walked down the road to Chawton Great House—once occupied by Jane’s brother, Edward Austen-Knight. It was opened to the public by the Knight family in 1987. More about that later. The walk to Chawton House is about eight minutes and includes some gentle rolling hills if one looks to the left. The path to the house is one that Jane herself would have walked on a regular, almost daily basis. But before I could visit that magnificent country house I had to pay my respects to some of its former guests.             Both Mrs. Austen and Cassandra Austen are buried in the churchyard of St. Nicholas (also known as Chawton Church). This is not to be confused with the church in Steventon where Rev. Austen was rector. This St. Nicholas was once a chapel for ...

The House of Jane Part One Who's House? Jane's House! The train to Alton takes about an hour and fifteen minutes. When that train is delayed it takes about ninety minutes. When one is caught in London traffic on their way to Waterloo station, then it takes about two hours. As I boarded the train to Alton, I had this silly feeling. I felt that if my teenage self could have been here, he would scarcely believe that he was finally going to Chawton. I could scarcely believe it as an adult. It’s evident why people travel to Alton. The banner with a well-known silhouette and the dates 1775-1817, and the words, “This way to Jane Austen’s house!” are a complete give away. Though one is encouraged to literally follow in her footsteps and walk the forty-odd minutes to her cottage, I decided to take a cab. Luckily there’s a cab stand in front of the train station. Clearly someone was enterprising enough to consider flatfoot travelers from across the globe. ...

I never pictured how I'd feel at different ages. I remember once my mother said to me, “You’ll be twenty in the year 2000.” I turned twenty-one that year, and it didn’t feel any different than the year before. I feel like the most recent birthday that felt any different to me was last year when I visited Winchester Cathedral and the Mary Rose. Prior to that my birthdays from age twelve to the present were largely unremarkable. I want them to be remarkable, but I think that once you get to a certain age they cease to feel special. Maybe it’s the lack of presents, or the lack of fanfare. For me, birthdays are difficult. I’m often reminded of what I’ve lost or speculate on what could have been.             I’ll turn forty next year, which scares the hell out of me. I feel like I haven’t done much in the decades I’ve been alive. It wasn’t until I started traveling that I felt like I started to do much of anything. I’ve always...

Meditation on London 2 Westminster Bridge, just before I walked across it.  The first time I met her I didn’t know what to think. She was loud. She was scented by petrol fumes. There were people clamoring all around her. Everyone wanted to either be with her, be in the same picture with her, or at least have a weekend fling with her. She’s been the mistress of kings and queens. The muse of authors, artists, filmmakers, rock musicians, and fashion icons. The streets that course through her are like veins that carry her lifeblood; her people. It’s the Thames that gives her those curves, as it caresses her sides, and holds her together. It’s like the laces of a corset that zig-zag across her back.             Her name is London.             I can’t help but feel a little smitten with her. I’m in love with Bath. I find Stratford-Upon-Avon charming. Manche...

I've started a Go Fund Me campaign to help pay for my university education. Sad to say, but if this campaign fails then I will have to drop out. I'd hate for six years to go down the drain. Even worse, I'd hate for a promise I made to my mother go unfulfilled.  Help me so that I can help others.  I'm offering up some very creative rewards for those who donate.  Part of the reason I haven't updated lately is because of how busy I've been with my schooling.  Also, this blog will be undergoing some changes; visual updates, and more diverse content. It isn't going away. It's going to be better. Stick around. You'll like what you see.  Below is the link to my Go Fund Me.  If you'd be kind and donate, pass the link on as well. https://www.gofundme.com/riley-joyce-university-funding