A Few Paragraphs of… *space for your description*

As I speak, I am wrapped in blanket in the chilly city of Cardiff, in a hotel room watching Danny Mac dance beautifully on my tv screen.

I know, you are probably getting bored of my consistent posts about the various places that I have been visiting for universities, however it is pretty much the only interesting thing I have going on in my life at the moment, except the worst cold of my life intertwined with laryngitis. No pity necessary, I am giving myself enough.

Today, I am not going to post about my travels, or anything about Cardiff and the multiple welch names I have been seeing everywhere I look, including a sweet little cafe called ‘Hoffi-Coffi’ which I already knew meant coffee. I know you are doubting me; but trust me, it’s the truth.

I have written a few paragraphs this weekend about, well, I’m not all that sure what they are about BUT I would like to know it makes sense. If you have the heart to tell me that my writing is sensical or non-sensical, it would be appreciated.

“””

Lines circle peripheral vision. Different colours for each different route, being inoperable for the colour blind. With colour for colour to colour spasm. Which colour is which; which colour to follow. With green as red and red as green…constantly thinking that the north route was south and the south route was north. A useless person, really? Useless to be around. Useless to use.

The thoughts about where he was, the feelings that clambered into his brain with a colourful blur of monochrome. Where he was, was hidden from the world, built for him and him alone. Him for his emotions that arose calligraphically. Prettily. He was so far from normal masculine stereotypes it scared him, so. At the end of a red line, (that was green to him) he thought the line was positive because of the connotations, but there was really a red sign above him screaming WARNING shooting him several times in the back with a tranquiliser to get him to become emotionless and the stereotypical man.

His house was a giant, a big, unfriendly giant. Full of ghosts jumping out at him when he pranced through the front door using a fork as a weapon. Four spikes, one victim, easy to defeat. The weaponry in his house ranged from forks to machine guns that of course were only used to fool the commoners when they came round for an innocent cup of tea. He couldn’t remember the last time he went into his kitchen, or his lounge for that matter. He was in desolation. Stairs, step up step up to his room. Antiques glistened from the walls. Fragile. Fear of them tumbling down to smithereens. He was totally alone. His parents wouldn’t speak to him anymore, due to that incident. His wife was on a safari journey through Africa and hadn’t had a mobile service since she got there. His children went with her. That incident was accidental, but his parents thought it was deliberate. WHY? he thought, while he unpacked his brand new antique teapot and placed it on his wooden shelf in his bedroom.

“””

-ALWright

Free Cider and the New Cornish Generation

Yet a further wait for my readers, and the apologies are endless. I have certainly been flouncing around the country (Devonshire + Cornwall… not exactly the country) to try and find my perfect location for my further studies. I am still on the verge of a mental breakdown trying to find somewhere that I can settle down in less than a year’s time.

Currently, I am lying horizontally on a super-king size bed in a beautiful b&b in Falmouth Town called Highcliffe – which, I would certainly recommend if you are ever going to come to the gorgeous coast-side village; it is run by amazingly lovely people, and the rooms are as pretty as the sun beaming down on the Castle Beach sea, which is in my vision from the view of my room here.

Five 1/3 pints of cider placed in front of our noses on our very first night here in a restaurant called The Stable, and each one tasted better than the last (except the last one, which was a bit too odd for my taste). But it was free, and I was not about to pass on a tray of alcohol for principles. 

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The air just feels different here. The soft touch on your skin is like being showered with kindness in every step. The first time you traverse through the cities and concrete of what felt like another world, it is like wondering in to the wilderness of the outback for the first time: astounded. The amazement of the air. The stunning beauty of the sea. The waves crashing into your peripheral but barely touching you, and feeling at one with the glory that was created for us to gawk at.

You sit. Sit and stare. Sit and stare at the waves, crashing. You hardly want to do anything else. It is strange but, the atmosphere for you just feels the most peaceful the Earth has ever been. Unlike the bitterness of everywhere else in comparison, the Cornish coast consists continuously of friendliness and optimism.

Dogs racing around in front of your eyes that you barely even see. The waves are crashing down while little boys and little girls splash their feet in between the currents, trying to soak each other just for the fun of the sun and the sand in their hands. Throw at each other, the yellow dust handfuls, just ready jump out of the way of the sand-balls. You watch and stare at the children you fear, the fear of never having grown up in this place. in this year.

The sun was brighter than ever before, as you slipped off your tights so the sun doesn’t burn you much more. Inconspicuous, incomplete, you sit in the sand, with your feet on the rocks and your head in your hands. Subtle but smiling, you lift up your head, and take a picture of the children, having fun like you never did.

The optimism of the town felt resentful to you. You resented the fact that this is them and not you. You desired to travel back in time to this place by the sea, to be as brave as these children to run and be free. In the sea, by the shore, you would dance and prance and twirl, and nothing would be better for a small, little girl. Now you are grown, forty-four, forty-five? Who knows how old you are still envying this life; the one you could’ve had, if you had explored a little more, but instead you left your home maybe once a year, maybe more.

The new Cornish generation, how much fun do they have? You whisper, you wonder to yourself, trying to have, the same fun they do in that sandy, colour beige. The world just kept spinning in this new Cornish age.

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Impromptu rhyming librettos just inched into this blog; I’m sorry I didn’t mention it, before I jogged on in a frenzy of typing and typing and typing some more. But at least what you get will be worth it, I’m sure.

(If it wasn’t worth it I’m sorry. If it was then yay.)

-ALWright