Hugh Mitchell Casey creatively expresses the thoughts he had while staring up at the beautiful models of Catwalk on Saturday February 6th, 2016.


Don’t adopt a puppy only to cry when it pisses on your couch.

St Andrews does not need another cynic.

The only person a cynic silences is themselves. Yet cynicism is needed to cut through mundanity. For that is what we have just seen: a dozen or so people walking, briefly pausing, walking again, a further brief pause followed by a final walk behind a curtain.

Here I sit, a cynic, a critic alone with myself. Thus a cynic drawls with even less inspiration, even less accomplishment. This town does not need another cynic. Cynicism alone fails…

Such cries are boring manifestations of dread, of loathing; fear of oneself.

“Everyone is a critic,” says one friend to another.

A man so afraid of self-rejection that he cannot join us in an age of post-irony. Instead he walks away with two able legs, the rest of us left struggling against the angst, irony and meme pages, gazing up at our peers as they strut.

                        Is the taste of tea altered when brewed in a pot, rather than simply settling the bag into your mug?

I immensely enjoyed the evening. Kudos.

Please recognise that I am capable of appreciation: whoever designed and put together collections inspired by the fifties, along with collections from various charity shops around town I dare not comment upon further than simple appreciation. I’m all about that.

Dark skies that settled under the Saturday evening sheltered us in familiar club lights. Still we stared into space. Constantly modest bulbs clinking glasses, cheers to us. Such a dull cluttering of gratitude would leave a thirst unquenched. Graciously a singular guide did invite us further back into that which is seldom reached. Bearing a wry smile treaded features without complete candidness. Digression away from an insult of ‘smug’ must also be noted. Avoiding a name, gender, ultimately any specificity is the privilege that extending such a welcoming hand rewards. I’m all about that.

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Uninhabited screaming sat densely at the end of the runway. ‘Scotland is void of wilderness,’ so I have been told. Fierce noises void of refinement are certainly celebrations of momentary enjoyment. Turbulence through those voices celebrated all without discrimination. Punctual physicalizations slapped or pulled against any leg close enough. One particular set were lauded, one particular name echoed when the lights finally dimmed to completion. Both belonged to another. My hand was taken, turned, lead from a walk into flight by another. I do not doubt that I was accompanied by the entire crowd. Others’ particular favourites lacked conscience: instead secured by recognition or friendship. Autonomy remained as such that, despite being held by such a grasp, the distance between was as far as the night could reach. Spotlighted barriers, one following another remorselessly again and again could never be crossed. Nevertheless, buds of unison sprang out from that stellar field.

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Personal calamities and uncaring familiarities attended the fifteen minutes I spent in the after party before leaving. I’m all about that.

Fashion shows are the culture of St Andrews and a legacy that studying here cannot deny. Denial of the money that such shows raise for charity would be just as juvenile. Lack of adherence to a set theme of ‘street’ or ‘grunge’, remanence of apathy, of unconditional enjoyment

… as long as our coats are returned undisturbed. (I’m all about that.)

 

 

Hugh Mitchell Casey 

 

 

Featured images courtesy of Lightbox Creative