Ladybirds and Mermaids
Feb. 27th, 2007 11:25 pmAmongst the bugs that swell and swirl, I sip the strongest coffee that I always imagine is made from brewed emperor's robes and violets. A ladybird lands on the 'b' key and then a few days later, after I notice a piece of paper on the pavement that says "incubate", a few more ladybirds appear on my desk. It is suggested that they are attracted to my newly red hair.
I think about weekends I haven't finished writing about and remember that the last one I mentioned, which contained waterfalls, cliff tops and sea foam, also contained mermaids and rainbows.
Morwenstow:
From the church, I walked through a field or two, until I came across what is apparently the smallest National Trust owned property - a small hut made from driftwood, situated on the cliff-top. I hid inside this hut where Robert Stephen Hawker, the former vicar of Morwenstow, used to write poetry and indulge in opium.
According to my guidebook, Hawker once dressed up as a mermaid on the seashore and only gave himself away when he began to sing the national anthem. I read the graffiti scratched into the wood inside the hut and the verse of Hawker's Butterfly poem, pinned to the wall: "Bird of the moths! That radiant wing Hath borne thee from thine earthly lair; Thou revellest on the breath of spring, A graceful shape of woven air!"
Gazing out at the same sea that Hawker would have, I found myself searching not for butterflies, but for mermaids.
I think about weekends I haven't finished writing about and remember that the last one I mentioned, which contained waterfalls, cliff tops and sea foam, also contained mermaids and rainbows.
Morwenstow:
From the church, I walked through a field or two, until I came across what is apparently the smallest National Trust owned property - a small hut made from driftwood, situated on the cliff-top. I hid inside this hut where Robert Stephen Hawker, the former vicar of Morwenstow, used to write poetry and indulge in opium.
According to my guidebook, Hawker once dressed up as a mermaid on the seashore and only gave himself away when he began to sing the national anthem. I read the graffiti scratched into the wood inside the hut and the verse of Hawker's Butterfly poem, pinned to the wall: "Bird of the moths! That radiant wing Hath borne thee from thine earthly lair; Thou revellest on the breath of spring, A graceful shape of woven air!"
Gazing out at the same sea that Hawker would have, I found myself searching not for butterflies, but for mermaids.
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Date: 2007-02-28 12:01 am (UTC)HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!
xx
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Date: 2007-02-28 12:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 12:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 01:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 09:22 am (UTC)Never stop writing.
Just for a moment there, I was somewhere other than where I continually am.
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Date: 2007-02-28 10:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 11:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 11:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 01:09 pm (UTC)He also wrote "The Song of the Western Man", more commonly known as "Trelawney", which is the unofficial national anthem of Cornwall.
I'm so jealous that you're there and I'm not ;) Happy birthday :)
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Date: 2007-03-01 11:15 am (UTC)I'm not there any longer, unfortunately! It seemed like a nice place.
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Date: 2007-03-01 12:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 11:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 04:46 pm (UTC)Happy birthday to you!
Happy birthday deeeaaarr Jooooodi!
Happy birthday to you!
Hip hip hooray!
Hip hip hooray!
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Date: 2007-03-01 11:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 12:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 01:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 09:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 11:05 am (UTC)