Cornwall and my missions.

With all that a great city like London has to offer such as the diversity of culture, the multi-racial communities that are facilitated in areas such as Whitechapel, coupled with the fierce segregation of international inhabitants, you would assume that what this cosmopolitan city has to offer is nothing short of boring and uninspiring. People such as me have relocated to London for the creative opportunities however competitive, the change of experience and life direction and the very excitement of job prospects etc, and the very poignant fact that almost anything can happen. London offers any visitor the ability to conclude toward the very fact that, like every city, it has a wide case of characters and personalities, an atmosphere that can rival any other U.K city, and streets that are famous for good or for bad. I can gaze up at the skyscrapers in Canary wharf like I have done previously, and marvel at the solidified resemblance of an economically power hungry nation. Yes I have been caught aghast of London’s historic landmarks, laughed at its entertainment value, and consumed alcohol until the world seems not so blighted as I once questioned two hours ago, and so much more silly and pompous. Yes I have walked across the Thames Bridge with the wind whipping my face, and the groans of car engines whirring across toward the other side of the city as I seek to understand how gloriously England still remains to be culturally different and somewhat old fashioned still. Yes I have sat amongst budding flowers in Hyde Park and kicked around a football precociously with people I did not know whom I befriended for the sheer fondness of sport in the heights of the summer sun and laughs.

Two weeks ago I sat down in my room and frowned at the floor with tepid tears rolling off my face. I’d lost my job, I felt that I was not directing myself through to any conclusion in any area of my life, and negativity had flourished heavily on my mind. I picked up my credit card and gazed at the faded digits and considered the very notion of escapism: the fact that I had an ability to go anywhere with my passport clenched in one hand and a small rucksack in another. I was on the brink of doing just that very soon when I got a text message from a close friend inviting me to a place her and her family was located in: southern England: Cornwall.

I had about four missions for this trip: Firstly to see if it was entirely possibly to measure the threshold of how stressed I was mindfully, secondly to reunite myself with a friend I had not seen for just over a few months, and thirdly to meet up with the girl who had an impact on my emotions like no other girl (or boy) had in my life and to see how my feelings would succumb, by seeing her again for the first time in half a year. Lastly I wanted to relax, and grip what ‘relaxation’ really felt like again. To a varying degree I wanted to see if I could note the levels of my personal happiness, via a key question: ‘Is London really contributing to my overall comfort, or realistically, is London not really ‘me?’. I know that happiness cannot be measured in quantities, and most of the time we either are not aware or do not really know what happiness really constitutes. I guess a necessary comparison would be to reflect upon our own lives as children, as irresponsibility on a financial and emotional level surely increases levels of comfort and decreases levels of some anxieties and worries. Secondly we could definitely look at how we conduct our lives and make it healthier of course, in many aspects. However still, it’s virtually impossible to totally eradicate lines of discomfort therefore I am able to accept that in adult life stresses and strains will impact upon us, but what I wanted to know was how a completely different place, that was very rural, would evoke my reaction mentally, physically and emotionally.

The trip was several hours long and yes, travelling makes you tired. Sometimes I cannot understand that theory, seeing as you are mostly sitting down or sleeping in the carriage of a train, but for the most part, I am compassionate with the individuals who really groan about the aspect of long distance travelling. The first impression of Southern England, shall we say specifically Falmouth, was one of utmost peace, a soulful designation but not very exciting and definitely not the kind of plate London offered. I was a bit sceptical of my visit for the first long moments until I ventured out and step foot into the soft, sand ridden landscape of Gyllyngvase Beach. It was sincerely picturesque, and had the aura of silenced but passionate creative beings. I could imagine young people wearing casual garments, sitting in close knit circles, smoking small rolls of tobacco mixed with the grinded leaves of cannabis and facilitating their every mental effort toward the ultra natural casting of the waves as they lay underneath the cool, breezing air that stroked their faces. I could imagine that the height of summer offered the young and old a sincere chance to grapple the real notion of the serene landscape that composed a great sense of tranquillity.

‘This isn’t like London. You never have to worry. It’s completely safe, you know, this is Cornwall’ is what my friend said as we strolled relaxingly on the cliff road. Being in London has caused me to become wary in my footprints, and completely vigilant of my immediate surroundings at most times. I must admit I’m a ‘chicken’ as it were, and my bravery lacks quite a bit. The dark scares me at the best of times, even when there is no one around, so it was definitely refreshing to be rejuvenated with the fact that crime in Southern Cornwall was scarce, or so the fact was.

By day two I was starting to enjoy the very fact that nothing seemed crass there: people were unperturbed, ruffled by little worry compared to city living, not to mention the definite notability in the cleanliness of water, less pollution in the air, and the laid back way of life. People did not need to rush around, and did not have the compulsion to brush off others because their line of transport was arriving in two or three minutes. Admittedly London has hardened me up in that aspect too: I never run for a train, but there are times where I have been brash and strode quickly, purposely not taking notice of people who might want to communicate because I have a place to get to. The conception of a rushed, abrupt atmosphere is one of the city’s downfalls unfortunately, which makes London society quite hasty at the best of times.

Nevertheless, I was going to vacate that attitude most definitely, and adaption is something that I have usually managed to accomplish. This was of no difference, and what I liked about this area was the fact that a lot of individual’s agendas were of course perpetual as everyone’s is, but more significantly, the way in which they utilized each day was very much in conjunction with the overall soothing characteristics of a southern English beachside. It seemed to me that if there were worries, it would be taken in a probable laid back stride, rather than shuffling and fretting about things that were smaller than seen.

Imagine a November afternoon, where the wind is frightful and the clouds threaten the overcast, so much so that you’d rather stay in with a film and a calming mug of warm hot chocolate. That was not quite the case in our situation. I’d met Dee* the day before for the first time in six months, and it was safe to say that I’d been anxious to see her as the last time of her departure, my feelings were in turbulence and my attraction was sincerely far from emancipated. Bounding down the stairs in an attempt to be confident and unnerved, I saw her and remembered exactly how she was and the connection we had etched. The hug was warm, and the communication from then on was effortless. The ability to make conversations progressive needed no exertion. As for my feelings, well Dee was and is still an open minded person: the very thing I adore about her. Because of this, a small varying amount of romantic feelings were still lingering, however the density and disruptive capability of them were not. Still, I would have felt some sort of physical reaction if we’d kissed, but I knew from the way that we were, that kissing her or trying to in any way was not a logically adequate move, plus she considered herself very much into men: the biggest factor of course.

Saturday Dee suggested that we should swim in the salty seas of Falmouth. I gazed at her in slight disbelief, and I pointed out bluntly that the weather was not so great and it was probably going to be absolutely freezing. She declined my notion and remained exuberant about it, enough so that I half reluctantly agreed, and eventually grew high spirited about this whole crazy charade! Casting our clothes on the eroded rocks that were glued into the sand, we made our way cautiously toward to edge of the lapping waves that half-heartedly sprayed the rocks. It was as if they were conjuring us to come in, using the tide as a way of clever manipulation. Dee firstly tried the temperature and shielded her feet away when she realised how cold the water was. I laughed, seeing as she was the one who’d confined both of us to this interesting activity on a bitter November afternoon. After the initial shock of the water, and my body reacting as if my stomach was going to almost throw the entire contents of that day’s food onto the horizon, I made the innate effort to swim very similarly to how a dog would: rapidly pushing the water around my body and frantically moving my limbs as if I were trying to fight the law of gravity. After about five minutes I’d seemed to adapt to the almost icy capacity of the water, while Dee, after a short while resigned from the water and remained on the rocks, taking a few delighted pictures. The funniest aspect of this amusing endeavour was the point where we’d finished assimilating our time in the ocean, (being watched by about five rather humorously outraged elder individuals) and was grasping our cardboard cups of tea with increasing difficulty. The wetness of my clothes, coupled with the beginnings of a rainy spell, and the strong current of air was causing us both to be juddering our hot drinks that mostly spilt over the ground below. With no offense intended and no puns made, I felt as if I was an old aged pensioner who had unfortunately lost the will to grasp effectively anymore.

The meeting with Dee that weekend lasted one evening and one day. As I said goodbye to her with an agreeable hug and no seeming awkwardness between us, I felt the slight trickle of those feelings of ‘Man, I miss her so much’ from six months ago. Her spontaneous and artistic nature appealed and gripped me, and will probably continue to do so. It’s been twenty two years and I am not afraid to say that she is the only person who has had that impact on me as a whole, whom I’ve connected with so very well in regards to similar outlook, endeavour and discussions of light philosophy. I realise that I aspire to meet someone who is very much like her, but where one implication is more correct and ideal. As I walked up the road overlooking the cliff, a lyric of an old Australian song rang through my ears from my Ipod: ‘There was a time when I would go walking backwards round the world if you said your mine’. With my bag tipping my shoulder up, the heavy rain hitting my face and seeping quickly through my clothes, the slight sadness of saying goodbye dawned on me with no reluctance. However much I knew my feelings were in plight ever so slightly at that moment, I filled my thoughts with a smile and grasped onto the very fact that I knew circumstances were not right, but I’d made a good friend and a worthwhile companion to reach to if ever in need or not. However much she is the romantic ideal for me, I know in my heart of hearts that she is not the one for me. I made sure I ingrained that very notion in my mind, while I made steps towards beating the rains.

Seeing my friend that night was equally as good and the reaction we placed upon each other was rather hilarious. She’d wanted me to come earlier as she had difficulty withstanding her family talk about men and the X factor. I felt like I’d entered a comedy club given the way she was describing how seemingly suppressed she felt, especially regarding the fact that she is gay and had no outlet in the form of discussion. I arrived at the estate and waved a farewell to another very interactive and communicative person (I was starting to really like this Cornish attitude that seemed to be embedded positively within everyone) who happened to be the taxi driver. Fifty yards from spotting each other we were laughing our hearts out at the very fact that the last time we reconciled like this was at work and now we were in the middle of nowhere, with the main topic of conversation being a dog-wash that was spotted in the small town of ‘Penze an Beeble’. The dog wash seemed to be the fire of discussion: ‘Oh my god, there’s actually a dog wash here babe. A real dog wash, I can’t believe it! People have nothing to do here, so they make a business by doing a dog wash. It’s like a little shower; I think it’s a joke! Seriously, who would do that!?’ she concluded many more times than once. The story was not magnified: it was true and it was worth chuckling at. I, myself had never heard of a mobile dog wash before. I’d assumed that people used their baths for the dogs, but here we were discussing the very imaginary but real concept of something never heard of. Apart from this I’d engrossed myself in reading the biography of President Elect Barack Obama which turned out to be one of great interest. I divulged in it largely, because ever since he won the President Elections, he’d instilled a degree of great iconic respect from me. The biography is proving to show evidence of the fact that he is as level-headed, rational and clarified as his speeches make out to be.

Arriving back at London Paddington this evening, I didn’t know how to feel. I’d had a relaxing whole day with my friend, and enjoyed the atmosphere and the surroundings of Falmouth much so, that I lightly citied an idea to book one more night there by myself, just so I could open my curtains to the gleaming horizon. I walked through the station barriers and immediately felt a rush of difference. Of course firstly, this was London again so the rush and fervour of people were everywhere, and secondly it was the time where people had finished work and was crowding the underground gates, hoarding the floors and seemingly snatching every ounce of free space there was.

Out of the four missions I went to accomplish, all were sustained well, except my question of my future. I know I want to go to university next year for absolute, one hundred percent certain. Dee had a point in what she said on Saturday: ‘I like it here because of the sea and also this will probably be the only chance I have to live here. If I want to pursue writing, I’ll probably have to go back into the city. I mean, there isn’t really much opportunity here’. She has a valid point. Creatively, the city is the best place, but to conform and hone my ability to study and my motivations, I do believe that a University situated in a place such as Cornwall would do me well for three years. This of course, is going to be utilized and I do not think that I would go to Cornwall; however if I can find a University near a beachside, I can’t help but think that it may do my mind many wondrous favours.