From the 11:04 to Plymouth - A Note on Dyslexia
Updated: Dec 12, 2021
A thousand vehicles of all shapes and sizes replace the human inhabitants in the intricate momentum of odd movements weaved by the operators who are miles from the action. The night was A-1 PRIMED and ready for launch. Gig set. Goals without any lift. Now in motion, movement seemed to be the key. Collating all of this is beyond a challenge.This mind-set [dyslexia] is one embodied by a punk pounding and metal head neck thrashing, and is less of a describable phenomenon than an all-encompassing rejuvenation. It promises to reaffirm all you ever believed and destroy you in the great exchange. It’s a good night, which can change everything. On the train shooting past cookie cutter homes. Crows pecking at the seeds of grain and rapeseed out the window. There’s a strange clarity upon exit of a metro area. You can see, in plain LED quality, how wet and spun you’ve become in strange times and places. Like London in 2021.
“I was there as an observer, I was only there to see, so the vibe was on and that’s all. I was
never the first to applaud.”
What truly saps my spirit is the fact I’m on a train and capable of writing this at speeds of a hundred and something in relative air-conditioned comfort. I miss the rattily cars and high, low, speed ways full of mad men in vans and mums with a threat of suddenly snapped sanity, breaking at the last second to choke the kid with the belts. I miss this country’s null spaces. The places between places that connect and facilitate that great migration of goods and people and endless fifty mile an hour for the road workers, crossing past deserted traffic cones. It all makes sense really. If London is a place to escape, then taking away the working scums ability to do it on the cheap could put this town on its knees. Through all my bitching rambles about the awfulness of that place. The grass is always
greener on the other side. I’m the cow that runs them all and forgets to eat. Make of that
what you will, just remember my words. They're not all mad. And none of this has anything to do with that and more to do with what it's like to write with dyslexia. And I suppose that is what it’s like. A long nonlinear line of mental [diarrhoea] complete with brief moments of strange clarity, and complete confusion. Basically, it’s a bit naff.
From the 11:04 to Plymouth, with love,
Reggie Kevin Albert George Bolton is our 'in house' tech wizard and London corespondent.
Reggie is a dyslexic writer who holds a First Class Honours in Creative Writing from MMU. Reggie is at the forefront of his 'dyslexic nouveau' style for which he has been celebrated for.
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© BRAG Writers Literary Magazine 2021