Tuesday 17 September 2013

Benchmark ~


28 April 2013 at 09:37

    He fumbled for his keys. He had made a specific point of placing them definitely on his person. He thought with an awful honest plunge that he had lost them again. He paused at the door of the bungalow. All was silent. The sky was empty. A light moved only. In his stupor such moments gave him great pause. He teetered absently,the silence around him. It was comforting and he relished it. All worry faded and he forgot about his keys. He felt calmness. A calmness that he could never express to another. It would be beyond him, even sober, to express. It was childlike in many ways, like being safe and sound in the back of a family car.But he could only imagine such things. His own father had left him; his mother had placed him in many institutions over the years. He had a brother somewhere.Mumbling these useless memories he automatically grasped his keys and went inside. Above, the light had moved on and disappeared.
   When he came to,for he always came to, he never woke up, the temporary feeling of despair erupted upon his being, that he had done it again, that he drank, that he had no idea what day it was. That he was clothed and that he had pissed himself. At such times he was glad to be alone. It was one of the reasons why he was. The opening of his eyes was a rip of light into his dumbfounded world, the great challenge, the first step into another day. Opening his eyes. After this leap,his head responded, the awful bitter cruel thump at the very centre of his brain, a hot needle, then cold, spasming in all directions. It was dehydration of course. The brain itself minutely shrunken, causing pain between matter and skull. He didn’t know this. He didn’t know the pragmatisms of his ailment any more certainly than the reason why he even drank. He was primordial and sent his hand outwards to grasp something, phone, bottle. There was some left. He never really planned for there to be some left for the morning. It was another primordial reaction, a ground in function like needing warmth and shelter. He didn’t even look at the bottle, nor did he relish particularly the taste of the cider that passed over his awful tongue. Just that hit. Immediate. The alcohol from the day before fired up by more. The flow dwindled to a trickle. He placed his tongue into the bottle, getting every last drop. All this was before he had sat up. The booze began to ease the lead of his limbs and he raised himself slowly onto his elbows. The room looked grim. It looked unfinished. It sat there, utterly mute, with its piles of clothes, ashtrays empty cans and wine bottles like the writing on the wall. It was death to look at. This room, its squalor, was like inhabiting death. He didn’t think of it like this at the time of the day. Those revelations always came later. When he had once tried to be profound, when he had been given an insight briefly, he had scrawled on a bench in the garden, ‘welcome to the nightmare of life’.These progressions took time and he was in the process of medicating at this point. Sitting up changed everything. The world went from side to side a little. He turned his head upon its aching neck and saw the time. 07:23. But he was awake now. He never slept for more than a couple of hours.
   To his utter surprise he saw an unopened bottle of white wine. He had planned ahead after all, just like the keys. He tumbled forward, arms on wet jean legs and breathed deeply, head down. He dozed for a quarter of an hour, only being snapped awake by his body nearly giving into his fatigue, and then he was set again on his purpose. The wine was all he cared about, all he wanted. When he placed his hand around its neck, the smooth lines of the glass seemed other worldly,greatly comforting and for a moment he paused to appreciate the form. The bottle was perfect, the pale yellow liquid within gently sparkled in a sunbeam.He click, click, clicked the lid off and pursed his lips over the neck. It feltl ike ambrosia, hitting his filthy palette and striking such pleasure that he groaned as it pumped, mechanically, down his throat. He didn’t come up for air. His first bottle of the day was finished at 07:30. It didn’t touch the sides. After the hits of the slugs died down, the wine shifted its gears on him,  cohearsing the alcohol of the night before and creating an effect akin to being stoned. He began to wake up. He began to feel good. He stood up straight with a click here and there. Optimism and good feeling raced over his senses. He would clean up today. He wouldn’t need another, he felt fine. Unsteady on his feet but confident, he went to the bathroom to sort out the soiled clothes. The sun continued to shine in. The room seemed to breathe with him. This room was his. He had confidence. He had a whole world.

The other world ~

Tuesday, 25 June 2013
The other world,
Sense forming sense,

Love arriving into bedlam ~
A heaven,

A place of our altar,
A hedonism into dusk,

Love becoming,
The world waits ~

With breath,

You are mine.

Rising Camp ~ Michael, The Happy Dancer

Rising Camp - The Complete Michael the Happy Dancer


During most of last year and the beginning of this year, I was housed in a hostel for people with addiction problems. During my rehabilitation I met many people. Here is one of them ~

February 16th 2013 A delightful young man, fallen on hard times, has taken up residence at the hostel. He's a struggling dancer. Such was my affiliation with his plight, I let him put his milk in my fridge.

February 22nd 2013 Michael, the dance student down the hall, showed off his cut and blow dry last night. I must admit, he looked stunning. Purple really is his colour.

March 3rd 2013 Michael, the delightful student dancer, was showing me his swanky phone earlier. I warned him not to flash it around the hostel, 'no-one messes with me' he said, 'if I get angry, I get pissed off. I got my friend down on the ground the other day for pissing me off. She didn't do it again'.

March 4th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was again in the communal kitchen earlier, as I was defrosting my supper. 'My ex fiancée is bothering me,' he began, oblivious to my disinterest, 'We were together a month. If he comes round here, I'll scratch his eyes out' - I certainly wouldn't want to be the ex. Michael has the longest, sharpest, most expensively manicured fingernails I've ever seen.

March 5th 2013 Whislt scrambling an egg this morning, Michael, the happy dancer, came into the kitchen with a young man in tow, 'This is Darren' he began, oblivious to my disinterest, ' my ex. We've made up haven't we?' 'I don't know' Darren said, eyeing me up in my dressing gown and bed hair, 'is there a room going?' - I shall prepare breakfast in my room henceforth.

March 8th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, came back from a dance class earlier. 'Some blokes heckled me from a scaffold as I got off the bus!' I can't imagine why, the leotard wasn't that revealing.

March 10th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was discussing his work experience placement at his college earlier. 'I'll be in the bakery, selling what I make in the canteen.' - He then proceeded to demonstrate his sausage roll.

March 11th 2013 So, the DWP think I haven't lived at the hostel for the past few months. They sent the letter to inform me of this here, to the address they claim not to have. I shall send them a photograph of me, and Michael the happy dancer, waving infront of the building.

March 15th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, knocked on my door earlier, rousing me from my depressed stupor. 'Do you have a match? My sink is clogged. Darren is eager to see into my ubend. He needs to light up my pipe' - 'Oh come on,' I replied, ' that's a crude and obvious double entendre.' - 'not at all' he continued, ' we were shagging on the sink earlier and I knocked over the pot pourri' .

March 16th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was having coffee with me in the communal lounge earlier, when the conversation turned to gay marriage. 'Im a person aren't I?' he began, ' I have every right to marry the man I love.' I agreed and asked if that would be on the cards with Darren. He became unusually thoughtful, 'Darren is young. He has a lot to learn about the heart of a man' - I'll admit that this empassioned observation was moving, but would have been slightly more effective if he wasn't wearing a hip length satin dressing gown and bunny slippers, with his hair in a towel.

 March 18th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was showing me his routine for a review he is doing at his college in the communal lounge earlier. 'It's to the music of Cheryl Cole' he began, 'fight for this love'. He then played the music on his phone and executed a number of vigorous gyrations and hand clenchings, drawing back into a fist at his chest, before twisting his hips like he was using a hula hoop and creeping towards me on all fours like a cat. I was flattered and moderatley uncomfortable. The two workman putting up scaffolding outside the window broke into applause.

March 21st 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was expressing his sadness at me leaving the hostel tomorrow. 'You've been a friend' he began, 'and haven't judged me like my family did. You've accepted me for who I am.' Nervously, he reached for a hug and I reciprocated, getting a mouthful of feathers from his boa. 'Perhaps we can keep in touch?' he continued, 'on facebook?' I idly wiped his lipstick from my cheek, 'Oh, I never use it' I said, 'I never use it'. 


Dreams ~

9th August ~ Woke up this morning from dreams of school again to find Mille nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in her furry bed, or wrestling with the chest of drawers as usual. Fearing the worst, I jumped up and rushed to the garden, the tail from my Dalmatian onesy that I sleep in swishing to and fro. Not in the garden. Back in the kitchen, I decided to check the house...what followed was a montage of doors to various rooms and cupboards being opened with lights flickering on. To no avail, I returned from the'Graham Greene Appreciation Lounge' to the kitchen. As the lift door opened, I thought I'd have to do it. Enter the living room. I don't go in there at present, as the balancing presence of Daisy is temporarily absent, causing the forces that live in there to be unsettled. It's like the green screen effects of Tobe Hooper's 1982 classic 'Poltergeist' in there, and I have often had to duck and roll to avoid being struck by a flying 'Star Wars' toy. I have however, stored the properties for the show against the far wall. Entering gingerly ( I always have to don a huge curly ginger wig to disguise myself from the forces at work ) I saw with alarm a work table set up, paint tins opened and the radio tuned to classic fm...Millie was touching up the few props I had had to rush the night before, mewing in time to the 'Bolero' as she did so. For a moment we looked at each other silently. I slowly removed the wig so she could recognise me ( and was promptly hit on the forehead by Han Solo encased in carbonite that you had to send off for with vouchers. ) and tutted promptly.Whilst I appreciate her help, she hasn't got opposable thumbs and hence, can't hold a paintbrush correctly. The finesse was lost. I had to repaint.

11th August ~ Woke up from dreams of school again to find Millie sat on my chest, staring into my eyes. I got up, made coffee and her breakfast, whilst all the time Millie sauntered behind me, to then position herself on a chair to again gaze into my eyes. Upstairs, checking the day's online bitchiness, she sat on the occasional table (which I occasionally use like a pretend steering wheel when I imagine I'm driving an Aston Martin as James Bond) to further peer into my eyes. Looking up, I glanced into my 'Cheeses of Norfolk' map mirror to see that the mascara from yesterday's performance of 'Dalmatians' had smudged in the night (I often leave it on to make myself look like Gary Numan) giving me the appearance of a hung over Panda that had recently been dug up by Gene Simmons. Thank goodness she pointed it out to me before I went to Church today. Although, to be fair, the vicar often borrows my stage makeup to go to sex jamborees in Suffolk.

12th August ~ Woke up from dreams of needing the toilet in public places to find cubicles with no lock again, to find Millie nowhere to be seen. With horror, I leapt out of bed and rushed to the open window. The netting I had placed there to let air in but keep kittens safe was fluttering on the lawn below. "Millie!!" I called, rushing downstairs to the garden. Nothing. I stood in the morning air, my dressing gown undone, a cool August breeze dancing meditatively around my testicles, "Morning..." said Linda, our neighbour, with a look of restrained shock on her face. Inside, I found Millie again in the living room. She had set up my old PSOne and was loading 'Medal of Honor'...she looked at me with her big rich eyes and mewed. I felt sorry for her. It's a classic game but without opposable thumbs, she couldn't hope to operate the controller correctly.

14th August ~ Woke up from horrid dreams of school again to find I had lashed out in my sleep, bopping Millie on the nose as she lay on the pillow next to me. Poor kitten. We aren't talking at the moment. She's sat drinking her coffee in the Colorado lounge with her back to me. Of course without opposable thumbs she can't grasp the mug properly.

15th August ~ Woke up from dreams of being slowly drowned in an iron maiden to find Millie nowhere to be seen. I leapt up (making sure my testicles were hidden this time) and hunted around calling her name...nothing. After searching outside in the maze, past the topiary animals and the croquet court, I returned through the north entrance, ignoring Hallorann who was lying on the floor, through the kitchen. Eventually I made it upstairs to find her snuggled up with Joseph, who had stayed the night after the soiree the evening before. Purring contentedly, she glanced up at me with disdain. Incredulous, I decided that neither of them would be getting breakfast. However, as Joseph doesn't have opposable thumbs, I don't know how he'd tackle the eggs benedict anyway without making a mess.

16th August ~ Wokaupa froma sleepa to finda that Ima speaking likea Manwell froma FawltyTowers...Millie nowherea to be a seeny. I goes down to the .... que???The...'living room' and shes a sleepy on the soofa. I kick her offasoofa....she gets back on the soofa, I kick her offa. Misssster Fawlty no likethe cat hair on the soofa...then I find Millie hasa been in the...que??? 'Fridge'and to drinka ALL the milk! Buta without errr....que? 'opposable thumbs' she noholda the milk properlys anyways.

19th August ~ Woke up from dreams of surfing behind helicopters in Vietnam again, to find Millie nowhere to be seen. After her greeting at my homecoming last night, I was surprised that I was on the hunt around the house for her. I entered the kitchen, deserted, aside from Millie's breakfast of quail and orange juice: untouched. Quickly, I turned on the internal CCTV system and scanned the various parts of Barton House : the billiard room, nothing, the pool house, nothing, the Aldous Huxley Library, empty, the Jim Davidson dental ward, nothing; but then, I saw a tail slink around a corner of the opening to the Rothko Room. I hit the internal camera. Millie hates the abstracts. She had spent the night turning the massive paintings to the wall and drawing her own representations on the backs. I admit, her rendition entitled 'litter tray at dawn' was remarkably accurate, done in the garconne style. But of course, without opposable thumbs, the lines were crap.

21st August ~ Woke from dreams of fighting rubber lizards in a slightly camera tinteddesert landscape to find Millie nowhere to be seen. Her furry bed was empty and the MG was missing from the garage. Worried, I leapt onto the Harley and activated the homing beacon, racing down country lanes in a montage of revolving wheels, the speedometer gaining speed and the road ahead. Suddenly, as I screeched around Dead Man's Curve, there, infront, the MG was off the road. Millie sat on the bonnet, gazing at me with her big green eyes. Unhurt.

Time has passed and we don't talk of the accident. Millie goes about her business unwilling or unable to discuss the reason why she tore away, on a desperate escape mission, or a flight of fancy. The car is fine, undamaged. The investigation into the accident sits on my desk, Millie sees it and nonchalantly slinks away, feigning disinterest. But I know. I know what she is thinking. Paragraph three reads : ' MG undamaged. It is this investigator's opinion that the car left the road due to negligence of the driver and that not having opposable thumbs was a definite factor in the car losing control.'

S.M.Morgan 2013

Further Dreams ~ 

Woke up from dreams of solving the Acle Old People's Retirement Village Sandwich and Scone Caper (it was the janitor! All along! Of course, there was only one set of keys after all) to find Millie nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in the massage tray or in the conversation jar, so I called down to Mellors, the temporary groundsman, to ask if he had seen her,

"E, my John Thomas!! My old John Thomas!"

Disgruntled, I decided to walk the grounds and attempt to locate her again. The swans were basking by the lake and I paused to take in the scene. It was a beautiful autumnal morning, golden and bright. The bison herd meandered across the plain and even the flamingoes seemed happy. Above, flocks of Canada geese sauntered across the sky, heading south, and even the lonely parachutist, hung from the branches of the tall oak looked up from his kindle and called a "good morning!" ~ all was peaceful.

Finally, I reached the summer house. And there she was, of course, how could I forget? Today was her modelling class. A group sat in a semi circle, copying the items placed on the pedestal in the centre; a vase, two oranges and the most challenging item, a snow shoe. The teacher wandered amongst them, nodding and quietly offering advice. But there, Millie perched, her work suddenly revealed as I entered, caught mid sculpt, green eyes wide. Aghast, the teacher edged away slowly...a gasp rippling around the other students. Millie simply began to wash herself. On her little table was a collection of sculpted thumbs, thumbs, thumbs, thumbs; human thumbs modelled from clay.
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'Woke up from dreams of being chased by Molly Ringwald from the movie 'Sixteen Candles' to find that Millie had refilled her litter tray with muesli. Or was it the box of muesli with kitty litter? Either way, it goes well with a banana....' ~

Simon M.Morgan first started incorporating his kitten Mildred into facebook posts in July 2013. Since then, the two have become world famous, with a television show, 'Paws for Thought' aswell as a hit movie, 'Star Trek, Into Darkness' in which Millie starred as Benedict Cumbersnatch's hair, numerous television adverts, internet virals and political campaigns. Relaxing in her New York apartment, Millie spoke of her process,
"To me, the art is the writing. You have to be able to paint satire convincingly, otherwise the message is lost. That's what my message is about, making statements about the detritus of the common man. Feed me."
Currently, Millie is working on a new series of 'Paws for Thought' with her opposable thumb assistant, whilst Simon can be seen by opening your eyes and looking at him.

They live in Norfolk with the gardenist Monty Don.


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Woke up from opium induced night terrors about huge ear lobes, to find Millie nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in the Victorian Iron Lung I had picked up from Looses and converted into a comfortable kitten cwtch, nor was she in her study, working on her kitten chocolate formula. Concerned, I called to the new groundsman, Tom, who believes he is a character in a Pinter play, and asked if he had seen Millie this morning,

"No"

Pause.

I then asked if he would let me know when she sauntered around,

Pause.

"I lived on the old Kent Road once. In this bedsit. Couldn't get the work see...to...afford a nice place..."

Pause.

"Have you any cigarettes?"

Pause.

"I couldn't..."

Pause.

"Get the work for a nicer place."

Pause.

"I got plans."

Pause.

"Had plans then and got them now"

Pause.

"Could murder a cigarette, if you've got one"

Pause.

"Do you have a cigarette?"

Pause.

Eventually, I hung up to find Millie relaxing in the latex hammock, snoozing away oblivious to the morning ritual of hunting for her, a copy of 'The Caretaker' nestling between her

Paws.


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Woke up from dreams of chasing plastic bags and an endless supply of kibbles to find Simon and Daisy nowhere to be seen. I called their names (I haven't yet mastered the absurd language, seems to be all cooing and babytalk, even to each other) and jumped down from my number four daytime nap place (the windowsill overlooking the garden) to hunt for them. After twenty minutes stalking and attacking a sock, I continued looking through the house. Barton House is large, even for a 4lb kitten, but that aren't too many places they could hide. They weren't in their night time lie down place (that they seem to stay in until well past my breakfast time) they weren't in the large water place (that Simon stands in each morning to try to master his 'singing') or the food place. After ten minutes investigating the food place I noticed I was near to number five daytime napping place, ontop of the sofa. I'm sure they'll turn up when they get hungry. Trying to type this without opposable thumbs has tired me out. I hope they bring more kibbles ~ Millie



  1. Woke up from dreams of being marooned in a giant kitty litter tray to find Millie nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in the editing suite where I had left her last night (we're working on a short film noir) or working on her motorbike. Alarmed, I texted her but no reply. I tried calling, again, no answer. Turning on the laptop, there, she appeared as a screensaver. In the night she had somehow gotten into the computer through a USB port, no doubt looking for kibbles, but without opposable thumbs, she couldn't press the disc release button and escape. Kittens! They get everywhere!


    1
Woke up from dreams of being trapped down the back of a giant sofa to discover it had its own self contained shopping centre, ('Loose Change and Chips!') to find Millie nowhere to be seen. 


She wasn't in the studio, working on her clawed rendition of the cast of Star Trek from the episode 'Space Seed' (Khan needs work, right now he looks like a pony tailed David Cameron) nor was she in the bath, perfecting her campus technique on the shower curtain.


Perplexed, I went down to the temporary groundsman, Jonathan, who was stood in the shadows in a trench coat and trilby, smoking surreptitiously in by the bean wigwam. He believes he is narrating a crime novel. I asked if he had seen Millie this morning,


"He came up to me, tired, worried...he had the kind of look that said, 'I could moider some breakfast', but hell, I'd seen enough of moider, enough to last a lifetime...he was cold, no slippers, no socks, the kind of feet that said, 'I could moider some shoes' but I'd seen enough of shoes, the moider at the Clarks factory stayed with me, eating away at my waking moments like a goldfish in a bowl of Cherrios. He'd asked me if I'd seen Millie, 'no' I said, 'your broad? I had a broad once, a looker, she had the kind of look that said, 'I'm all yours for the right price' we weren't talking no Sunday morning stroll to Waitrose to buy some pot plants, capiche? She was a heart breaker, her price was the kind of money that didn't fold in the pocket, that always left you wanting more sugar in the coffee, more whiskey in the cold dark empty hell holes downtown; Moira, Moira...Moira was moidered, snapped out, she'd tried to kill me with a hairbrush, our one night together...Jesus...what a ride...but this ain't no choir boy love story friend, no story with a happy ending, life is hard pal, you have to look it in the eye, the kind of look that says, 'I ain't taking no crap off you', like a moider, a cold calculating moider, ah..Moira...I still have the hairbrush, couldn't hate her y'see, still have her hair too, made a wig, gives me a look, the kind of look that says, 'Hi sailor, new in town?' but this ain't no sunday school picnic friend...it has a look, the kind of look that says..."


I left him muttering and wandered the grounds. The bison were moving calmly across the horizon and the gnu enclosure looked lovely, having recently been re-wallpapered. The flamingos too had really mastered their line dancing routine, some taking a break to play ping pong. Even the parachutist was in good spirits, cooking himself an omelette as he gently hung from the tree, whistling the theme from '633 Squadron'.


I gingerly approached the summer house. Millie had recently been quite secretive about it's use, spending more and more time in the evening there. Plus, there had been deliveries that I wasn't allowed to open, parcels and packages. Well, I was about to find out. I slowly opened the door and went in.


All around were test tubes bubbling away, apparatus connected to each other, Bunsen burners, flasks of liquid...a blackboard held cryptic writings, symbols, paw prints and there, in a tiny white lab coat and goggles, was Millie. She slowly put down the clipboard as my gaze fell onto what she was working on.


On a table, tied down, was a robot version of myself. Where the hands should have been were two bowls full of kibbles. The stomach area was a huge bag of kibbles, that replenished the hand bowls all the time. The legs? Scratching posts. The head was a tin box with a crude photocopy of my face stuck on to the front, obviously acquired while I was asleep.


We stared at each other until an alarm went off, kibbles suddenly pouring into my bowl hands and onto the floor, breaking the tension.

Doctors

I had an odd experience this morning, which I thought would best be explained by a small homage to Pinter.
Scene. A doctor's reception desk.
_ Good morning, I have an appointment today with Louise? My name is Simon Morgan.
_ I don't know who you mean.
Pause.
_ She's a therapist.
_ This is just a doctor's surgery, I don't know a Louise.
 Pause.
- Ummm....it's for 09:15? This is West Pottergate isn't it?
- It is.
Pause.
_ It's through NHS Wellbeing.
_ That's nothing to do with us. This is a doctor's surgery.
Pause.
_ I was told to come here...( Produces letter. Receptionist takes letter. Reads it, hands it back.)
_ That's nothing to do with us. This is a doctor's surgery.
Pause.
_ Yes, you said. Could you look on your computer perhaps?
Pause.
_ That's nothing to do with us. This is a doctor's surgery.
Pause.
_ I'm sure that I wouldn't get sent a letter stating it was here at West Pottergate Health Centre unless it was.
_ We don't have anything to do with any other services that may or may not operate from out of the doctor's surgery.
_ Does anyone else know where it might be?
_ That's nothing to do with us. This is a doctor's surgery.
Pause.
Louise appears from behind me.
_ Hi Simon, take a seat around the corner. ( I look around the corner, obscured from the reception desk, a sign reads 'NHS Wellbeing' )
-Well, that's it there! The Wellbeing Service.
_ Yes. The Wellbeing Service is around the corner.
Pause.
 -But it's nothing to do with us. This is a doctor's surgery.
Curtain.

Bert ~

Indeed, salt of the 'earf he was, like a whisper from a kitten he was, like licking a stamp he was, like drinking eggnog from a glass slipper he was, a true gent he was, he was the best of 'em, could hold his own he could, like a fish wife he was, a grasping bleeder he was, a sandy little cockamooch he was, walked the distance he did, liked the road he did, was a jumping arse he was, a fighting man's slagger he was, like a diamond in an alsatian's vagina he was, a dribbler, a whacked out drunken shit bag of a man he was, loved the rope he did, didn't mind tying the lace he didn't, he walked like two men he did, he was always several inches too short he was, like a stallion's gooch he was, a ribbed nightmare to the unbeliever he was, several sheets cut to the wind he was, a box of elbows he was, the best of 'em, always had a finger for a man, always had a slight leer on a wednesday he did...old Bert.
Bert ~ by ASAP 

3 men, 1, 2 and 3 sat on chairs respectively ~

1 : Good Bert
2 : Good old Bert
1 : Good old Bert

Pause

1: Salt of the 'earf.
2: A gent.
1: Don't make 'em like that anymore.
2: Don't they?
1: No.

Pause

1: Always had a kind word...
2: Wouldn't say boo to a goose...
1: No, wouldn't scare a goose for no reason.
2: Not unless he needed to.
1: True.

Pause

1: When did he need to?
2: That Christmas market.
1: The rugby club social.
2: That's the one.
1: The goose had it coming.
2: Wouldn't get off the stage.
1: Still, didn't ruin Bert's rendition of 'My Way'.
2: Good old Bert.
1: Spring chicken he was.
2: Make you a sandwich he would.
1: And did.
2: Would eat it too.
1: Right infront of you.
2: Fine man, honest man.
1: The last of the honest men.
2: The first of 'em.
1: The middle of 'em.

Pause

2: Loved a bet.
1: Oh yes, loved a bet.
2: But only if it as a sure thing.
1: Oh no, didn't waste his money.
2: Or spend it.
1: Or actually placed a bet.
2: Oh, no, well he wasn't the betting sort.
1: Mug's game
2: Any game.
1: Good old Bert
2: Salt of the 'earf.
1: A real man's man's man's
2: Man.

Pause

2: Liked it rough he did.
1: Could take it mind.
2: Women loved him.
1: Shagged my wife.
2: Aye, and yours too.

Pause

1: Didn't mind though.
2: It was Bert.
1: It was Bert.
2: Always had a hankie for a lady...
1: Always had a lathe for a carpenter...
2: Could always be found grooming a priest...
1: Salt of the 'earf.
2: A real gent.
1: Sadly missed.
2: Sadly
1: Missed.
2: Bert.

Pause

2: Remember when he saved that busload of kids?
1: ...yes...
2: You know, the bus driver had lost control of the bus and it hung precariously on the edge of the bridge? Bert flew up and saved them all!

Pause

1: That was the movie 'Superman'

Pause

2: Bert loved a good film
1: Aye, loved life
2: Bert
1: Bert

Pause

3: He owed me hundreds

Pause

1: And me
2: Me too

1: Bastard.

The Call of the Wi Fi ~ an actor and a cat without social media

Hi internet people: some tragic news, SAL 9000, my dell notebook of two years, has finally died. I'm using an emachine at the moment which can't cope with the internet. Millie and I will be cut off from the world until I can get SAL fixed...wish us luck...she's already looking at me like, "now, you have to play with me all night"~ we'll be found, in a year's time, two skeletons hunched over a wooden game of 'Solitaire' , the last desperate throes of attempted entertainment...

Day One : Have managed to construct a make do internet receiver from a coat hanger, part of a radio and a leather shoe. Millie in good spirits. Am worried about food stocks. We shared a packet of Felix...with this limited internet signal, it won't be long before things start to break down, one can't exist for long without social media...I may have to engage actual people in actual discussions without sarcasm...Millie now keeping her spirits up by whittling a small boat. We settle in for the first night.

Day Six: Without internet, it is becoming impossible to keep track of time, the world outside moves differently without the comforting glare of 'Windows' ~ Millie and I passed the night ok. Her pastimes grow more desperate. Without opposable thumbs her attempts at portrait origami are...in progress. Food supply holding up. Kibbles on toast this morning. Lashed together two bushes from the garden to make a protective canopy for us both. Looks good in the living room. When will this end? Keeping busy by looking at ways to sustain the limited resources we are left with without internet. Cut up the scrap wood from the garden.

Day 821: Just got through my first pair of plywood underpants. Millie has taken to talking to herself. Currently, she is playing both the roles in the opening to 'Godot', very good to be honest, but the accents are a bit thick in places however the variegation of Vladimir and Estragon are well defined, Millie denoting the latter by way of expressive dance. A neighbour walked by earlier, so I tried to speak face to face. My attempts were somewhat startling I think as I have been so isolated from human contact by way of the internet, I spent the minute of attempted contact stood in a holey pair of plywood underpants. We wait for the night, the next day and hope for rescue.

Day 23 : Evening. The one book I have to read whilst the internet is down is 'The Invisible Man' ~ I find a great kinship with Griffin, in that he is a metaphor for the dangers of too much sunbathing.... Millie in good spirits. She has spent my entire wage from Baroque on Amazon, purchasing 'The Cat in the Hat' over and over. The night falls. We wait for rescue, or at the very least, for the takeaway to be delivered. It is strange though, as I keep this record of the last man to be without the internet, how one's humanity reasserts itself. I never knew for example, that my fingernails were adjustable. Millie paces restlessly. She is becoming wilder without the regular chimes of 'Avast Anti Virus' updates. I see a wild look in her eye. Are we becoming animals, losing our reason? I hope this record is found. I hope that Daisy knows I love her. I hope the takeaway turns up soon. We wait for the night.

Day 67: The weather has changed for the worst. Hopes of rescue before spring fading fast, internet package runs out in January anyway. Millie in good spirits. She has made a canoe and paddles around the pond, spearing fish. Of course, her thumb defiency means that she often misses. And the canoe is more a plank of wood. So is the spear. Without a link to the outside world, we have no idea who the next Batman is going to be either. Have constructed a make do sexton out of the washing machine so we can navigate by the stars. Garden is wild. Things lurking in the bean wigwam. Last night, after our frugal dinner of roast in the bag chicken and curly fries we heard growling and saw black smoke. Gave Millie the conch and went about drawing a face on a football...I must get more allusions to desert islands in here somehow...

Day 432 : Today an internet service provider van drove past the house, but my signal fire failed to attract attention, probably because it was the smoke from a lit joss stick .Millie in good spirits. Her routine of exercise in the morning and sleep all day seems to keep her busy. Plus, she is currently re translating Virgil's 'The Aeneid' from the Dryden as she wants to have a stab at dactylic hexameter, but without opposable thumbs she finds it difficult to tap out the rhythm as she scribbles. My routine is less than intellectual. I find I grow increasingly paranoid. There is something in the bean wigwam!! I hear it at night, chuckling in a Northern Accent...is it the ghost of Bernard Manning, or worse, Bernard Manning? I finished 'The Invisible Man'...am I too invisible now that social media is so limited? Is that the lot of the modern man who turns, albeit accidentally, from technology, to be forgotten on the edges of society? I tried to upload photos. Impossible. I also tried once tried to climb a ladder with a suitcase, difficult. The weather keeps us at bay...Millie becoming wilder. I woke up to find her measuring me this morning, then later saw her measuring the lasagna dish. I hope this document is found...lonely here...I wish I had another human to talk to about 'The Prisoner'....next door hasn't even SEEN 'Free For All'...must keep busy, but without the internet, my grip on reality is slipping...not enough fruit in the house for live action 'Candy Crush Saga'...we wait for the night...

Day 342: (later) Trying to exist in the real world. Trying to live without internet coverage. Using actual emoticons to convey emotion. In the shop I tried to buy bleach. None left. Drew a :( on the counter in felt pen. Asked to leave. Drew another :( as I left on the door. Punched in face. Drew a :( on floor in blood. Back at the house, Millie had eaten all the newspaper. Wrote status on window for neighbours, 'OMG! No paper! ' then drew my lunch and a picture of Millie. Might be cracking up. :(

Day 888: Millie in good spirits. She spends more and more time in the garden with a load of washed up celebrities, who listen to records all day. Have been teaching myself new skills to wile away the time. I find I am adept at lens grinding but my soufflés need work. The postman delivered a package. I engaged him in spoken conversation about Bernard Manning and whilst he was bemusedly looking the other way, I placed a desperate letter to Talk Talk in a bottle in his postbag. He gave it back and walked off. Must use smaller bottle and not Daisy's 4 litre demijohn. The days are long. Without full internet coverage I cannot Skype Daisy in Germany, so have had to use the 'telephone' and 'text messages' ~ these archaic forms of communication are some comfort, but without visual recognition I find I get bored and hang up. Millie's behaviour alarming at times. She has made a huge effigy of me out of carrier bags and spends her time hitting it with a steak tenderiser. Have finally run out of Vicks Vapour rub, so nothing on my toast this morning. Need to think about walking out of here to Walsham before the winter takes a hold. Need to get to the computer shop. Making preparations. Will leave Millie behind when I go. She'll slow me down and without opposable thumbs she can't fumble for correct change for the bus. I must wait for a gap in the weather to make my attempt, and for 11:42 outside the shop as that's when the bus comes.

Day 8743: ..Journey to Walsham an ordeal. The sky a wash of blue that threatened to fall in, faces smears of colour without eyes. Millie in good spirits. Had made me a kibble sandwich for the journey. Without Google Maps, had to rely on road signs. Walsham 6 miles, 5 miles...walking hard in the cut grass, like wading through glue...sunlight a problem, no sunscreen with me...the smell of muck spreading too, nearly did me in...pleasantries with locals confusing, Norfolk dialect, as far as I can work out, ‘Where yarrrgoing ta Walsham then?’ means, ‘Are you going to Walsham?’...so tired...kibble sandwich eaten...stopped at the Crown for pub lunch...was pleasant, ploughmans and a coke, £6.95,...left the pickle... when will this end? Got to bus stop past Lamas, bus driver a souless Nazi with a perspiration issue...gave me a return...for what seemed like endless minutes we bumped through village lanes...reached Walsham...bus driver called, ‘this is wheeeereya want tab ebb then?’ which I think meant, ‘this is where you want to be’...found the shop, realised with utter horror...I had forgotten the Dell Notebook...but there, on the counter...it was fixed and waiting. Millie, in her helpful way, had called ahead and got it picked up, fixed and delivered back to the shop for when I arrived,

“Clever cat you have there my friend,” the computer man said as he glued a microchip onto a piece of bread with a Pritstick,  “but without opposable thumbs, she couldn’t sign for the invoice. Here please.”

S.M.Morgan 2013.

New proposed cover for upcoming anthology of poetry and prose ~


'awake in the night room'


featuring 'The Critical Eye' published on Word Bohemia,
e-magazine.

https://www.facebook.com/WordBohemia?fref=ts


The Critical Eye by Simon Morgan

Richard wrapped a paint sodden tissue around his left hand and stood back. The brush stroke was already drying, but failing of its breath. He needed it to live – now – to see it move and
radiate the beautiful red, but the leading edge was already losing the potency of its hue, like a wave freezing over. He struck again, biting his lip in determination, concentration at his task breaking beads of sweat on his forehead. The day was moving, light slipping away, so he was desperate to finish.
Before the day could end, Richard had chores to perform. He had the photos to arrange and the coat to pick up from the cleaners. He gave himself these chores weekly, as he gave himself one week to paint a picture. His father, a priest, had given each Sunday to the culmination of hisweek’s work; Sunday, the day of rest and service to his flock. A violent man, but fair in his
discipline. Richard remembered the anger. His father felt the world was godless and in ruin. He ground the faith into Richard weekly, spittle on his lip as he forced his sermon home. Seven days. The gradual winking of the moon. When Richard couldn’t sleep, he often looked at the moon, milk white on his canvasses. It looked distorted and old and was like a father.
Richard painted naked. He often used his body for inspiration and was proud of it. His skin was smooth, despite his sixty years and often wondered if this was what a woman’s body felt like,
perhaps fifteen years younger, the contours and the softness. When he put on his wonderful coat, he felt comfortable, and as calm as marble on a summer’s day. The coat had been his mother’s, his beautiful, delicate mother. She had raised him, and tried to interpret the vocation of his father to his young ears. When he squeezed his eyes shut on bright days, he saw the inside lining of his own eyes. Red, scarlet, like blood. His father’s rage, after the beatings on those bright days. She had worn the coat finally at his funeral, staring across at Richard with bleak wide eyes. Even when she then passed, Richard saw her staring at him in mute confusion.
The painting Richard was working on was a Horse, a stallion, high on the hind legs, bursting forth over a battlefield. The sky was red, as was the brilliant chest of the beast. Red, oh, the red! He raised his hand and traced the outline of the animal delicately, so as not to touch it.
Placing his brushes to one side, Richard prepared the photographs. He spent his days taking photographic samples around London, showing people in galleries, on the tube and in the street, hoping one day to be granted an exhibition space. He had always felt his work was ahead of its time, and waited for a great resurgence, so that his work could be understood and appreciated.
Richard became aware of the falling sun casting scars against his body through the blinds. The lines ran across his body. He wanted to outlast it, to make it still in his eye. The movements of the world did not matter to Richard. He believed the workings of other men to be fruitless and inane. They were like panes of glass he looked through. Occasionally malignity would snag his attention and he would be afraid. He would retreat behind his eye, the clutched red robe and the voices beyond. He took a step back as the light failed. His work was part of the shadows now, a blank, featureless space he stared into.
Richard came around. Underneath his thigh, bone pressed against his skin and against the wood of the floor. It ached. But there! Newly born, the painting let the morning light dance upon it, like running water and he was revived. Richard prepared to leave the flat for the day. He gained strength from the sigils in his life, from the mother he had inherited his home from. He lived alone, with the heirlooms passed down from other family members, a few trinkets here and there and his mother’s coat. He had the pearls she had worn on her wedding day and at his father’s
funeral. He gripped them now, and she seemed to speak to him, floating on the air above all things, calming his nerves. He would have to get the coat from the cleaners in his own clothes which unnerved him further, he felt incomplete. He wanted to wear the coat always, so the
blazing red filled him with power. But his mother wouldn’t have let him keep it like that, dirty as it became, day in day out of its wearing. So he had it washed once a month.
He put on tracksuit bottoms and an old suit jacket, squeezing into a pair of brogues. He was a mismatch but he didn’t care. He was eager to complete his task. Heart racing and with a final glance at the Horse for courage, he descended the stairs to the street.
The short trip was an ordeal. The air of the outside world sent his senses spiralling. He felt giddy. Clouds hung overhead, threatening to fall and smother him, a downpour of heavy smoke that he would never escape from. The people passing by had no faces, but angry blurred brush strokes, moving streaks of colour jostling in front of him. He thought of the coat hanging on its rail, a sword in the stone to hurry to.
It was outside the gallery the coat warmed him the most. It covered his other clothes and
protected him. It warmed his shoulders, wrapping his body in the warmth of its redness,
emanating warmth and becoming his armour. Bag in hand, Richard strode into the gallery,
oblivious to the looks and whispers. A group of school children were running around the public areas, glad to be free of the classroom. Richard watched them, but recognised a dawning
connection with their enthusiasm. His work..? He felt as if a magnet had been turned on in his day bag and radiated through his coat.
A small girl sat near to where he stood, scribbling in front of a Picasso, trying to copy it. She was young, and Richard had a sudden urge to speak to her, to share his energy with so innocent and inquisitive a thing. His coat pressed against his heart, blooms flowing like rose petals. Smiling awkwardly, unsure of how to convey its power, he crouched down next to her, fumbling with the straps on the day bag to reveal his photographs. She looked at him, eyes rapt with interest, then trepidation. He sat down and reached a hand out to reassure. He wanted to speak but the words would not form, so he motioned to his open bag for her to glance inside. It was as if she had been caught in an oven, so he stood up, hiding the open bag. She started to cry and ran away. The teachers were looking over and guards were moving to the teachers, so Richard hurried off.
Upstairs in the enormous gallery, Richard wandered through the crowds in the East Wing. It was exhibiting modernistic pieces from the post-war period. Pollock’s and Rothko’s, mass produced it seemed to him, because of their familiarity. No real objectivity, he murmured aloud. They had
never known truth like his red. Children parted before him, like Moses, as he shambled through lost in himself. He came to a room that was newly hung. The artist had chosen to manipulate the
perception of the human body. They had caused quite a stir in their time Richard remembered,
before becoming important and influential. Richard had not seen them in the flesh, in the blood. He gazed at the longest one; a triptych of human shapes, bathed in red. Reds, standing out from dull greys, like the world he lived in. Red! Oh, the red!
He felt a tremendous synergy with the work and his heart swelled. His heart was on fire beneath the coat, and he stumbled in a stupor. He sank down to sit in front of the piece, surrounded by blazing coals with no pain, only a strength that was gaining. Carefully, he reached into his day bag and produced his photographs. Like an offering, he gazed down at each in turn; lovingly placed one behind the other. His funnel of red, leading to a red brightness…the national flag hung in a blood red sunset…his Horse, emblazoned with a fiery red chest. He wanted this piece to be his crowning glory. When he revealed it, he would throw all his cares away like leaves into the wind.
Richard basked, contented. Red was in his thoughts, almost setting his eyes on fire. In these throes, he reached a hand out to touch the canvass, his other hand caressing the lapel of his coat. He hardly dared to breathe. A kind word broke Richard’s daze and he looked into the concerned eyes of an attendant. It was a few seconds before he closed his mouth and allowed the younger man to help him up. Richard sensed that the man would understand and took the opportunity to show his photographs. He explained the motivation of his brush work, the uses of shade and the red…He explained his themes, spittle sometimes catching his lip as he raved. The attendant moved away but Richard was lost finally. He grabbed the attendants arm. He was a warrior he
explained, alone with visions and sounds, breaking a bloody war. Art is not a triumph; it is a piece of land to fight for. His blood as the paint, he said, blood as the paint. The attendant was gone from his side. A crowd gathered near the entrance. Some looked over at Richard running a hand down his coat, an old man in a ruby red woman’s coat, reaching with the other for the painting.
Others were helping a little girl who had fallen. Twin rivulets of blood splashed from her nose onto the floor. She looked over at Richard and his eyes met hers; the red, he thought, Oh, the red!

Simon Morgan is from Wales and has made his home in Norfolk. For the last fifteen years he has been an actor working primarily in theatres. He has been writing since he was twelve.