sidewalk serfer girl; i'd do anything

to catch you falling angharad ann jenkins // 30 // cymru am byth

[angharad-jenkins]

Zosia,

          I cannot believe the time that’s passed since I saw you last. Its even more unforgivable that in all this time we have not spoken! At least not in real life. I’m unashamed to admit that I have fantasized many conversations with you, and dreamed of you once or twice. To find an envelope scrawled with your familiar handwriting on my door mat this morning was almost as wonderful as the idea of you knocking on my little blue door (though the latter certainly wouldn’t be scoffed at). I’m writing back within an hour of finding the envelope - I must admit I read your letter a few times over before finding the words myself to retaliate. When it’s written (and do excuse the length that might incure) I shall wander down to the post box (mine is just as desolate as yours, by the sounds of it!), which is about a mile down the hill that makes up St Dogmaels, and I’ll take Peggy with me. I’m afraid the funny little thing’s not been very well in the past few months, and that the remaining money I had left over from New York has been used up on vet bills. She’s worth it though, you’ll see if (when?) you meet her.

Darling, I am so thrilled to hear of you finding and feeling home. There is no better comfort. Its the same walls for me, the same creaky floorboards. But I wouldn’t change any of it for the world, save maybe a selected additional presence. Having said that, your description of your newfound home has painted a utopia in my imagination, and it would be wonderful to visit. How long have you been there?

You always did struggle to sleep. I wish I could sing to you to send you off, or read to you to help spin glorious imagery in your beautiful mind. I would say we could schedule a phone call to put that idealism into practice but then, I think I will also enjoy the romantic routine of letter writing. Besides, phone calls at such long distance would incur large charges and I don’t know how I’d feel about listening to your voice and not being able to watch your lips shape around the words. Do you remember the evenings we used to spend on the rooftop, high above the concrete and nestled in the artificial beauty of plastic plants? (Mind you, I can’t say the fake flora that decorated the rooftop could have ever been more lovely than the garden you speak of now, but I shall keep it sacred nevertheless) It was all I needed in that noisy city. A safe place, and a heavenly mind to share it with. ‘In this place where I am on my own, it doesn’t work without you there’… I’m sure you remember Gorkys. I think of you whenever I hear them now, and considering in Wales they are well renowned, Its more often than not that you are there. If (when?) you visit we can relive those days, Cariad. I do not have rooftop seating, nor anywhere particularly plush to sit; what I do have is a swing seat that looks out onto the river that flows past the bottom of my garden. In the summer I leave my windows open and the gushing water percolates my eardrums. You might find it as calming as a lullaby, if only you would test it.

Too many miles, Zosia. As always, you are right. Though my memory of you has been reignited from your letter, I must confess to missing you. And more so as the days pass. I must say I am proud to hear of your kept up kindness of surfaces! Proud of you for taking care, proud of me for teaching you. Have you been collecting records? Do share with me your collection! Business is okay in my little shop; as ok as it can be in a town with little money and sparse tourism. Still, I shan’t complain. My house is inherited, I need not travel out of my town, the only thing I need money for is food (for me and Peggy) and a little pocket money for books and records. Its a simple existence, but as previously stated somewhere back a few lines, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Have you heard of Blue Oyster Cult? I have been listening to them a lot of late, though I am delayed in discovering them by 45 years!

It sounds so glorious, Zosia, and I can almost visualize it perfectly. I would really love to come and see it myself but I think it would take me a bit of time to save for flights and everything, and what with Peggy being such a poorly thing I’d be reluctant to take off without her. I couldn’t bring her with me - no one would want to share a flight with a slobbery bulldog! I suspect the weather is glorious there, is it? Its been raining here for I don’t know how long. The Teifi is the fullest I think I’ve ever seen. Cenarth falls aren’t falls anymore - it’s all just crazy rushing mass of noisy water. Still, it’s beautiful, and if I ever find myself in Cenarth it’s to appreciate the river - and there is a lot of river to appreciate right now. It isn’t good conditions for my fishing, however. I bought a boat, a reliable old thing, but it’s for the spring and summer days.

Please write back soon, Zosia. Or call me, and don’t worry about the time. Should it be in the night, I’ll know who it is. In the envelope you’ll find a postcard from my little village, a photo of the Teifi rushing through Cenarth and a copy of one of my favourite books that I’m sure you might have read, and if not, will enjoy.

Nid wyf wedi'ch anghofio, hyd yn oed ychydig, a byddaf yn fuan yn teimlo eich haf yn fy nghalon eto.

All my love,

Your Angharad x

[angharad-jenkins]

pretending that we’ll meet round each and every corner, I walk a little faster

2PM. Covent Garden. Bollocks-- it was 2PM 5 minutes ago and I don’t even know if I’m on the right line. Thumb flick, phone unlock, bugger. No signal. Naturally. I’m underground. She’ll be waiting for me now, that sets a fabulous example for a first date. Even better when I turn up sweating and smelling of the girl next to me’s sushi. Must people eat on tubes? We have to breath in each others breath in a bloody vacuum for how ever long the sodding journey takes, plus delays. They should really sort out some kind of ventilation in these things, or extractors, they’re boil-- thank Lord, sushi girl is alighting... Good ridd-shit!

“This is Covent Garden. This is a Piccadilly line service to Rayners Lane”

Minding the gap, Angharad scarpered across a heaving underground platform, applying a newly mastered skill of crowd weaving while her nervous lungs heaved. As usual, she was late. Her mobile phone with a dormant Tinder application slotted in the pocket of her patchwork flares, having been deemed useless in it’s lack of signal that would enable her to inform her date that she was on her way. In the little time she had to navigate the bricked lanes of Covent Garden in search of their agreed meeting place, she would have to weigh out her options; cigarette or chewing gum? She wouldn’t have time for both. Jittery digits fiddled with tasseled hems and rags, tapped a tin, hesitated, tapped once more before resisting and going for the gum. 

15 minutes late.

Cittymapper pointed her left, and she swerved, a bike missing her toe by a millimeter. She cursed as her tired mobile caught up with it’s return to service and struck a cacophony of dings and beeps. There could not have been a more flustered entrance scripted, nor more trademark to her chaotic self. Alas, no time now to brush up; the girl she had to arranged to meet just last night was in sight, and Angharad wet her chapped lips and bat away the butterflies that were causing riots in her belly. 

She was even more beautiful than her romantic imagination could have ever illustrated.

“Juliet? I’m late-- sorry, ah--” ruffling lengthy coils that demanded a cut with their rebellious refusal to be tamed, Angharad heated, and a smile so large and bold threatened to spill secrets and inner thoughts not suited to a first meeting. She composed, and stood with an awkward stance that displayed her lack of bravery and hesitance to greet her date with a kiss on the cheek - how she would have liked. “--still getting the hang of this tube business. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

@julietweston

[fuckyeahantoniathomas]

Constellation magazine

[angharad-jenkins]

Touch Sensitive

Blinds shudder, mimic human response in place of the dormant human laying still in a tightly tucked bed. The licks of icy wind trembling through weak window frames are seemingly powerless, for the cold cannot percolate skin that’s gotten out of the routine of simply sensing temperature. If she were awake, she would be shivering just as vigorously as the blinds that do so for her in substitution. But Angharad is asleep, and peaceful though it may appear, it is a sleep as consuming and restricting as a straight jacket. It has been days, there have been visitors and there have been treatments and procedures, all unbeknownst to the sleeping poet who’s words are souring behind redundant lips. She will awake to pain, no doubt. There will be confusion, regret and all kinds of angst she has had to omit from expelling. When she wakes she will discover a lost finger, a lot of bruises, aching insides, and a blip in her memory that will surely drive her insane. 

But that is yet to come; for now, the endless sleep prevails. 

6 days pass and when bloodshot eyes blink open, they focus on a clinical white shell of a room, with an empty chair and a closed door. She stings, but while her vision rules her senses she neglects to locate the source of the sensation. It smells like chemicals and poorly scented rose soap; she inhales but the stench isn’t a particularly clued up lead in aiding her to figure out all the what’s, where’s and why’s. It’s blatant, her whereabouts, she just cannot make sense of it. There’s flowers occupying every surface, and while so much information is missing, she realizes that she can’t be in the UK because they don’t allow flowers in hospitals. Funny the things you remember when you’ve been knocked out for God knows how long. As a frown props itself in the lines of her forehead, things begin blurring back and while they do, her heart constricts inside her delicate rib cage. She remembers names, circumstances, the hopelessness she felt before the nothingness ensued. She remembers all the women, all the love and all the confusion. A toxic taste stains her tongue as she remembers the poisonous habit that must have landed her in this bed. She sighs, air leaving laboured lungs with a puff of dust. 

A thump and a clatter snaps her out of her epiphany, she jumps a little, her ears wearing into use. Angharad’s foggy green hues land upon the source of the noise with initial panic, but then recognition clears her fear away and she feels a beat of home in her chest. “Catrin,” she croaks, something resembling a smile cracking at her stiff cheeks, and her sister whimpers as she joins her side. “Oh, Angharad. Yesi Mawr you had us all so scared,” Catrin spills words too fast for Angharad to spool. She leans toward her sister, a painful expression riddling her features as her back aches, like it’s breaking out of a cement cast. “You’ve been asleep for about a week, Harry. We-- we knew you were going to wake up. You’re a tough little duck, it’s just, we didn’t know when. Mam and Dad sent me to be with you because they couldn’t get the money together to get here both of them. All your stuff got pinched, you were in rather rough nick when they found you--” One glance at her younger siblings face told Catrin that nothing she’s been reeling has made the slightest bit of sense to her. It’s all too far out of context, all to clouded over. Something shivers up Angharad’s spine.

“I don’t know what happened. Do I want to?” Harry’s question is nothing short of hesitant. She’s twiddling her fingers, one of which she hasn’t noticed is gone yet, canine gnawing at dry lips incessantly. Catrin naturally doesn’t know how to respond, whether to lay it all out or let her sister remain in ignorant bliss. Except, the consequences are plain as day without a clear source and they have to be faced, so it isn’t bliss at all. There’s a few moments of palpable silence, Angharad’s eyes locked with desperation on her sister’s wise, brown orbs that are so much like her mothers, and then Catrin sucks in that cold air that until now Harry couldn’t feel. “...Do you want a tea?” Catrin asks, and Angharad doesn’t reply. She wants to know, and she doesn’t need to press her sister to get the information; the elder Floyd knows how the little one get’s her way. 

“You were on your own and you were very, very drunk.” The first sentence makes Angharad wince; she could have seen that coming she just didn’t want it. “When you were found you had been lying in a snowbank for about 6 hours. You had head wounds and lots of bruises and alcohol poisoning and a ruptured spleen. Someone had attacked you and taken your things. You probably acted up, you silly girl... And you were wearing those stupid ripped gloves and so you they had to amputate your finger. Didn’t you notice?” This prompts Harry to at last acknowledge the missing digit on her right hand. She doesn’t respond. “You’ve been to hell and back and not even known it, Haz. I’d give you an earful but I think you’ve been through enough. And that aside, I’m just so glad to see you awake.” A shimmer of a tear battles to the front of Catrin’s eyes and Angharad instantly notices. It isn’t something she’s used to seeing, her elder sister letting her guard down. It would be enough to get her going, too, if it weren’t for the numbness consuming her and the information she was letting buffer in her hazy mind.  “I think I deserve the earful. Other than that, I don’t know what to say. You know I wouldn’t have gone down without a battle. But I’m stupid, that’s the way I work. I’m so sorry, Catrin. So bloody sorry for putting you and Mam and Dad all through this. For putting everyone through this. I understand that it;s my fault, and I’m--” That’s when she cracks, and before the first splashes of tears can wet her cheeks, Catrin’s shoulder is there to catch them. Her sisters arms nest around her broken frame, and she let’s herself cry.

“C’mon,” Catrin hushes, soothing the back of Angharad’s bushy hair while she makes up for a weeks worth of suppressed grief. “Beat yourself up when you’re back on your feet, Cariad. For now, you get your rest. Not like you need it after sleeping all week, you lazy sod.” She thumbs at Harry’s chin, the smaller sister smiles just a little. “You should get some too,” Angharad says softly, knowing that Catrin must be tired out from worry and jet lag and the entire family’s stress on her shoulders. Catrin nods, places a firm kiss on Angharad’s forehead and gets up to make her way. “I’ll be back in the morning. If you need me, the nurses have all my details.” Angharad notes the softer side of her sister not often displayed. A soft smile teases her rusty lips.  “I love you, sister.” “I love you too, Harry. We all do.”

With that, Angharad is alone again. Only this time, she’s aware of it. Sinking into a plump pillow, she studies the index finger that now stops at the knuckle and contemplates days passed. Who might have sat in that chair, making conversation with her in such an uncharacteristically silent state? She hopes there were many. She hopes they’ll come and receive some conscious company. Until then, alone it is. Alone as usual. 

[rureroryruri]

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[angharad-jenkins]

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@julietweston

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[themusicismymasterr]

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[angharad-jenkins]

Angharad 📧 Lennon

Angharad: I’m dreading the flight, I’ve been so poorly. But they’ve said I will be OK to go on the journey, that’s good. I’m very much looking forward to being closer to home, not that I haven’t enjoyed living in this wonderful city. Will you be going West End?

[angharad-jenkins]

text: Ready for this?

[text] ready for what, darling girl?

[angharad-jenkins]

[angharad-jenkins]

[fuckyeahantoniathomas]

The Gents Journal: Class of 2017

[angharad-jenkins]

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[julietweston-blog]

Your hearts in a free ride, feel it beating

[angharad-jenkins]

julietweston:

@angharad-jenkins

  Rest. It was so valuable to a healing state. Necessary to all bruised parts of the body, but to overly worried visitors, it only made time an enemy. How selfish she was, Juliet scrunched her nose at herself. She knew she should give the girl some space, to digest the dramatics of the situation without the artists smothering affection. It was Angharad. A girl whom Juliet admired all the way up to the tip of the burning stars in the sky. Waiting day upon day for a warming sign from the younger girl began to decay a section of the blonds heart. It was beating at a slower rhythm wanting to slumber itself, maybe the girl gave her bursting life. All Juliet knew, was that when Harry woke showing pleasing signs, that decayed portion of her began to blossom sweet florals. “Hey, darling, you’re awake.” Her voice eagerly clicked the tip of her tongue as her hands slid her jacket off. Even still in a hospital, Angharad posed such effortless and undeniable beauty to her. She was just a crystal on a planet, a gem flung from space living in a universe too bland for her. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?” She was pushy, but it stemmed from her overly caring heart for the girl. Juliet allowed her feet to carry her across the sterile floor. Her painted black finger nails lightly trickled themselves along the skin of the girls wrist. She was happy to see those captivating eyes open to the world. 

Past the imperative stage of recovery, Angharad’s mind was restless and itching. Having heaved her body out of it’s dormant hiatus but remaining cursed with aches and pains that hindered her mobility, she craved activity and company more than ever before. But alas, her bed was her birdcage and her wings were fractured. She could only hope for visitors, but they did not frequent her lonely hospital room as often as she’d like. The people she longed to be with were the people that, it seemed, out of reach, and loneliness was beginning to engulf her. Just like it had before she fell into that sleep. Except it wasn’t that way; it was just how she imagined. And in reality, she hadn’t been awake for very long at all, and nurses had told her that she’d had many visitors come by when she was not able to offer hospitality.  One woman in particular, she was informed; an angel with a lovely accent. It could not be anyone but her wonderful artist, Juliet. “You’ve come to see me,” Angharad said matter of factly, though with fraying edges of disbelief. How could she express how happy she was at the others presence, when her body was as frail and as wilted as it was? Her arm moved instinctively across the clean white sheets that tucked her in, intrepidly reaching out for her visitor. A rusty smile cracked at the corners of her lips, lips that were still being worn in after an unknown amount of redundancy. “No. I don’t think I need anything. I’m well looked after. I--” Pausing, she frowned and tugged at the words brewing in her head, aiding them in the journey to her tongue that would usually be effortless, but in being so broken was a particularly laborious task.  “--I missed you. I think. I mean, I’m sure I did, I just can’t remember. I can’t remember much. I’m glad, in a way. I’m cross with myself.” A laugh presented itself now, stifled though it was, and she gazed up at Juliet, disturbed and haunted by what she had done to herself. “I’m sorry for putting you through this. I’m really so, so sorry.”

[angharad-jenkins]

[angharad-jenkins]

[angharad-jenkins]