brushstroke ~

2014 has been a year that has seen me create and sustain thus far a successful theatre enterprise with my partner and friends; Strange Fascination has become quickly a greater success than I hoped to imagine. We are well received and approached to bring our unique shows to many venues throughout the region in 2015, we are respected, we are well in profit. Not many can claim as much.

However, I still pursued my acting career independent of these plans and found myself wanting. Living as I do with depression, I am often hard pressed to bring into effect those techniques and principles so heavily studied during my near two years of alcohol rehabilitation. My environment was not supportive of artist credibility, nor was it a place where one could work well as I had found with our own company, where collaboration, mutual respect and friendship were key. I became despondent, upset. Ignored artistically and made to feel isolated, I left that arena as a wholly disgruntled professional and look forward to more like minded collaborations in the future.

As 2014 draws to a close, we are happy and secure after some fortunate financial occurrences and are booked well into next year with SF. We have a holiday to Peru booked for March. Daisy is designing for our next show, 'Secrets' which I am busy writing. My January is spent in my home town doing cooperate work, a very good earner indeed. I'm looking forward to that. A chance to not only earn money for the start of the new year (as theatre creatures, I'm sure you appreciate the need to secure finances often) but a chance to revisit the hometown to put demons to rest. Whatever that means.

2015 hopes to be a year where our theatre company expands further and with Paul's excellent financial savvy, Daisy's ingenious creative talent and my, well, my prop collection (!!!!) we aim to increase our yield both fiscally and artistically. We might not be quite ready for the National, but I see it happening. Why not? We are motivated by good work, by people who work well with us; good people attract good people.

So, a brief summation of a year spent and hopes for the year to come. A year where I surprised myself in many ways and grew further as an artist and an advocate of speaking one's mind, if indeed there is occasion and need to speak it.

Happy New Year!

Simon

New Millie Dreams ~

Woke up from dreams of being the 6th Beatle that no one ever says, 'oh, he was so nearly in the Fab Four...' to find Millie nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in the Oliver Reed lounge or asleep on the wicker hammock. Concerned, I called down to the temporary groundsman, Bernay, who believes he is the human embodiment of pi,

"Have you seen Millie this morning?"

"3.14159265358979"

"Thanks"

Leaving Daisy tied up, I decided to search the grounds of Barton House in order to locate my cat. It was a fine morning, the flamingoes were up early, practising their close harmony singing and the parachutist was swaying gently in the soft breeze, preparing a simple repast of coffee and salmon on toast, which was a new diet his doctor had suggested.

In the distance the US 8th Army moved across the horizon, it's columns stretching as far as the eye could see. Wearied from battle but triumphant; Japan was defeated without bloodshed or atom bombs, but with the largest military tiddlywinks engagement man had ever seen. Tempers no doubt had been high. Thumbs were sore.

As I approached the summer house, I heard the dulcet sounds of many string instruments being plucked and moved in unison, the resulting air shimmered with a delicate balance of sounds; a careful structure that delighted and amazed in it's precision and inventiveness. Intrigued, I carefully eased the door further open and peeked in. There, beyond a table of teapots and buttered toast was Millie and a host of local cats, gently practising their newest composition, claws deftly extended to tease the most profound of sounds from their instruments.

Tiptoeing in, I sat in a chair to listen and watch, pouring a cup of tea and flicking a kibble off a slice of toast.

In the distance the sound was picked up by a US signalman and mistaken for a Japanese counter attack.

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The Neighbour poems

Oh, Mr. Strimmer Man

Oh, Mr. Strimmer Man, have you considered,
How your mechanized whippings might be delivered,
To the ears of those restfully still in slumber,
Or trying to get their heads awake and into order,

I know your path is unruly and overgrown,
But Mr. Strimmer man you are alone,
In thinking such activity is in anyway community,
As we have yet to reach the time of seven thirty,

Please, Mr. Strimmer man, have a heart and turn off
Your strimming apparatus and make it stop,
My head is alive with the sound of a million bees,
And I feel the vibrations into my knees,

Just an hour’s more kip would be so welcome,
Not the sound of your landscaping indiscretion,
So please, Mr. Strimmer man, go and have some brekkie,
That path will still be there considering it’s pebbly.

(2 hours later)

Oh, Mr. Mower man

Oh, Mr. Strimmer man, you’ve now advanced to mowing,
How fast do you think the grass in your garden is growing?

You’ve been at it for three hours and no sign of respite,
I can only assume you are trimming the very air and sunlight,

As it is a tiny lawn that is smaller than your house,
Perhaps you like the sound the mower makes drowning out your spouse.

I should be thankful though, you are stopping me from dozing,
I was up till three am on editing so I should continue working,

I should be thankful too that as I peeked out the curtain,
You are fully attired this time with more than just a shirt on.

Willow

We had planted the willow,
The October day throwing light -
Even the winter was softened;

But still it failed, had not
Taken a hold, hardy as it was,
It rotted over the months -

So that spring was met with
This failure of ours
Amidst blossom falling like
Belated snow or condolence;

We had wanted it, could not afford
Anything other, this idea to live
By our own means -

This failing then, is in the timing
Of things and success our grass root
To never break a hold.

Anthology cover ~

Proposed cover for anthology ~

more Millie

My faux Edwardian occasional table. Destroyed by Millie ~

STORM!

Storm is on it's way!!! Batten down the hatches!! Stock up on tinned meats!! Paint a large SOS on all people left outside! Hammer large pieces of crooked wood across the windows!! Put the cat in the breadbin!! Burn all the incriminating documents!! Shoot all deserters!! Make litres of pasta sauce!! Dig holes and put things in them!! Sit around trying to tune a radio!! Find a rifle in the attic!! Light fires to stay alive!! Listen to 'Two Tribes' by 'Frankie Goes to Hollywood' on 12 inch for full instructions! Chinese burn all the squirrels! Smash up furniture to make a raft!! Ration your cigarettes!! Eat all the biscuits!

Card Fraud

I have been made the victim of credit card fraud! An attempt to use my details to top up £10 of O2 credit plus, £4 to a floor covering firm in the United States. The operator indicated that perhaps, this wasn't behaviour that was too out of the ordinary, and that I might be interested in taking advantage of the reduced prices available in North America,

"To see the U.S is an ambition of mine" I began, "I hardly think I'd jet over to the New World, land of Faulkner and Hawthorne, Meville and Poe, to acquire new tiles for my bathroom"

"There's no need to be sarcastic Mr. Morgan" she replied, "I re-floored my beach hut in Yarmouth from an online discount textiles company in Michigan"

"So what would £4 get me there?" I asked,

"Our records show that the transaction was attempted in the cafe area of the store. It appears that the person tried to buy a burrito"

I paused,

"What kind of burrito?" I asked,

"I'm afraid our system isn't able to determine such detail Mr. Morgan."

more Millie

Last night we unwittingly locked Millie in the studio. Her routine of running around, purting at things and attacking objects has been thrown out of sync. She is currently investigating the various empty boxes I left out for her last night, before launching herself full gallop at the towels hanging over the banister.

Cherry Tree House

Cherry Tree House, should the reader ever happen to look beyond the Church of All Saints, behind the graveyard where it stands, is a hostel for people who, by illness or hardship, have found themselves without home and forced, therefore, to seek its refuge from the streets of Norwich. It is a moderately modern building, with a few rooms that serve the purpose of immediate remedy away from the cold October winds. Immediate only if the various agencies visited, the appropriate referrals procured and the never ending stream of papers signed and counter-signed. A tedious process that often takes many weeks of waiting; waiting in doorways and through hard nights, after the doors of the charities had to close. 

It was to this hostel that Matthew Arnold had finally found himself, after many weeks of distress and begging appearances at official buildings filled with interviews to determine his needs. All the while, the cruel night waited, the weather quickly plunging to a more than inclement autumn. He was alone in the world and had nothing, save a backpack of some belongings, clothes and books that had also served as his movable pillow. He clung to it as he waited for his knock to be answered. He had been on the streets for many nights now and was thankful of his numbed memory.

The nights were difficult and had produced in him an instinctive method of survival and the ability to sleep anywhere. He had quickly adapted to rummaging in bins and stooping for cigarette ends, anything in fact that could alleviate his discomfort. Mostly anything.

The prospect of a room, a solid roof and a bed seemed to him like winning a lottery and he was happy, happier than he had ever known in his thirty four years. A light came on in the hallway and Matthew was met by a large smiling man whose thick brown hair swept back from his forehead as a gust of cold wind rushed past him through the open door. The light was warm as was the beaming bearded face of this man,

“Ah, excellent, you must be Mr. Arnold? My name is Tom” and a large hand extended to shake Matthew’s firmly. The grip was strong yet, Matthew noted, the texture of the man’s hand had a weakness to it, like charred paper,

“ I will be your point of contact. I should think you are hungry and tired. After your supper I will take you to your room where you can rest. Tomorrow, tomorrow we will have much to discuss”. He led Matthew into a dining area,where he brought a small bowl of soup and bread. With the sustenance, Tom also brought a large bundle of papers,
“ Just red tape, I’m afraid. I can’t let you have the key to the room unless you fill out these forms, just to prove you exist...” Tom flashed a smile and Matthew glimpsed small teeth that may have been pointed but for the light in the room.

Led by Tom to a room on the top floor, Matthew took the key and entered,

“ We’ll soon have you re-housed, re- habilitated and re- introduced into society” Tom said and flashed his smile again. When Matthew closed the door to the pallid room, the silence was total. But the bed was as inviting as warm water over cold hands and he crawled into its heavenly sheets before sleeping quickly.

The moon was high and clear. Not an owl stirred and Matthew may have slept the night through. But as is the case of poor old Homo sapiens, especially in circumstances that are new to an old routine, his body woke him, expecting the hard stone of a street and the chill in his bones. His limbs ached from those trying nights and he found it difficult to regain a sleep. He rolled a small cigarette, leaning out of the window. As he perched there, slowly exhaling thin tendrils of smoke in the clear air, he looked across the garden to the tumble of gravestones, mute, cold, empty of feature save the stark crosses against a sky and the hulk of the dead church, beyond.

The very night was as still as if holding a breath. 
The only sound was the small crackle of the paper burning under his lips. As he looked, he noticed a shape, a movement between the stones that came into view. It was a figure, in black, moving forward and as he smoked, the lines of his smoke blurred his vision as if the apparition was shrouded in a mist, walking through the stones. He strained his eyes against the dark and became certain it was a figure. Sometimes it walked as if drunk, holding onto the gravestones, other times in seemed to stumble and vanish between them, on all fours, by now crossing over the thicket of the old graves in the hostel garden.

“Hello?” Matthew called. The figure stopped and stooped over, heaving as if taking plunges of breath and spoke back, “Hello”. The voice was distant, echoed, a rasping breath of the final throes of a human screaming. It then fell to its knees and crawled in a most unnatural fashion, reaching its thin black arms before it, reached, pulling and coming towards the building, “Hello” it said again in it’d disjointed manner, limbs contorting, “Hello”, moving with a speed of sickening immediacy that caused Matthew to utter a small cry and retreat behind his window. On the wall outside, he heard the form slapping palms and foot soles against the brick, now at the back of the building, trying to gain purchase.

He rushed out of the room, downstairs to the dimly lit office, where Tom had his feet up,

“Outside, a person, a man, needs help! He, came towards me from the church, the graves, he...” Tom replaced his geniality, with that flash of a smile again.

“ Oh come now, there’s nothing to be afraid of, first night in a strange place. “ He led Matthew to the back door and for a moment, Matthew trusted the familiar genial smile as he opened it.

There, the form stood, a shrouded corpse of ripped grey and bone, arms reaching for Matthew,

“Hello” Tom said to the ghoul, reeking of the deepest pits of human confinement, and stood aside to let it in

Girlfriend Quotes

'When you mend something, it enriches the object' ~ Daisy Plackett

Well, you mended me.

Simon Morgan's Acting School

Simon Morgan's Acting School.

Hi everyone.

As an actor of over fifteen years experience, I'm often asked about how to go about this business of show. Well, I've decided to give you budding actors and thesps out there some insider tips on how I, an actor, manage to pull it off.

1. The script.

A script is not just a series of words strung together to make people think you're clever, no, it is the actor's tool. Many people have said that I'm the tool, but I'm not, I'm not a tool, the script is the tool, for honing one's character and bringing the play to life. Read it and try to remember the bits you highlighted.

2. The character.

In a play once, I had to play several characters, so I had to really think about what I was doing for each. We all want to be Indiana Jones sure, but sometimes we have to play Miss Marple. In order to make sure you are doing a different character each time, try having a different wig or a different pair of shoes. Maybe a broadsword or a miner's lamp. And try a different voice too, but be careful you are appropriate, a broad Glaswegian accent is apparrently not at all suitable for Miss Marple.

3. The stage

I think it was Judi Dench who said, 'A stage is like a lover, broad, flat and well lit' ~ maybe not, but it's something she might have said. Get to know your stage, walk around on it before a show, test it for knee sliding potential and make sure that there aren't any nails that might inadvertantly tear your breeches during the last act of Hamlet, infront of a BBC Film crew.

4. Ad Libs

Ad libs or 'Additional Libbing' is quite hard to do correctly, so be forward thinking and write them down on your hand before a show, even using bits of the set to stick them so you don't forget. Trust me, your cast will thank you afterwards.

5. Other cast members

In a play, there are often other actors doing things onstage at the same time as you, so be aware of them and make sure you say your lines to them as much as possible. Also, in the dressing room afterwards, it's a good idea to get changed FULLY before you go up to the bar.

6. An Actor's Life

It's hard being an actor. Remembering lines of a play. Remembering people's names. Remembering all the birthdays.

To be a successful actor in the 21st Century requires a lot of guts, as there are thousands of people who would string you up like a halibut just to get an email saying that they might be lucky enough to one day eat in the same restaurant as a Casting Director. So you have to be better than the average actor on the tube, heading to the same audition as you. I try to keep fit, eat well, drink my own urine. But the best thing to do is learn a skill that gives you an edge. Juggling, lion taming, breathing napalm are all very fun to watch, but they have been done to be fair. We have ALL been to that audition, where the guy juggles a fire breathing lion, only to then see he hasn't got the gig before you; so what can you offer?

I often take selections of cupcakes to auditons as they are bitches to get right, they say baking is a science after all. Getting them light and fluffly requires skill. But try it yourself, and why stop at cupcakes? Try other foodstuffs. I had an acting chum who took some pasties with him once, and that went down quite well, as well as curries, pates and homemade preserves.

So, there is a quick introduction to the word of acting as I have found it. I hope it has proved insightful. Acting is always changing, we are always, as actors, on the game, so don't rest!

Learn those skills, eat up all you can, but most of all enjoy it, because if, like me, you didn't train in anything else, you'll be doing it for the rest of your life.

Grey Lung

Greylung, the hacking, spitting, drinking neighbour and his brood, have 'gotten rid' of their puppy. According to him, this three month old puppy was a 'terror' that 'ruined the house' and 'their lives' and so was 'sent back to where we got 'im', like he was a defective toaster.

Could it be your fucking lifestyles you ignorant fools? If you can't handle a puppy in your lives, what about those kids of yours that you are infecting with your smoking at all hours, your drinking in the morning and you in general, you stupid old tosser? Course, I didn't say any of this, I just held his eye and said, "Well, I really must get back inside, I'm not actually wearing any shoes"

man shaming

EDF

We hate EDF energy at Barton House; not only did we just pay a £450 bill to then get another £80 bill a day later, but they sent a brylcreemed minion to read our meter, who smelt of pickled onion crisps and didn't wipe his feet. Needless to say, I wasn't very nice to him,

"We just paid a bill."

"Yes, but it doesn't work like that, I'm just checking that you are paying what you owe us."

"We are switching providers soon, because EDF are too expensive."

(chuckles in that self assured way of a jobsworth) "Yes, good luck with that, who will you be switching to?"

"I don't know, my husband is dealing with it."

(Looks at me in my dressing gown holding a cat) "Your husband."

"My husband."

He left without another word.

Pet Insurance

Received a phone call from a pet insurance company this morning, Millie's four week trial of medical insurance ended today,

-"Good morning Mr. Morton."

"Hello."

-"I am calling to see if you would like to further insure your pet, ummmm Daisy, for our special introductory price of £98.07 for the year, which will cover worming repeats, accidents and subsequent medical costs up to £15,000."

"I don't think Daisy would appreciate me spending £98.07 for the experience of being de - wormed."

-"Mr. Morton, worms can lead to all sorts of complications in the adult female."

"Daisy thinks worms are a good thing actually, for the compost bin."

Pause.

-"Mr. Morton, could I speak to ummmm Mildred please? I think I could better impart the importance of insurance to your partner."

"Ok, but Millie is currently washing her genitals with her tongue by the fire; I tend to let her get on with it."

Pause.

-"Your partner washes herself by the fire like that?"

"No, Millie is my cat. But you can talk to her if you want, just as soon as she has released her tongue from her bottom."

15 year old laptop

Trying to keep up with the modern internet on a fifteen year old laptop that has a dodgy keyboard has proved frustrating. However, as with all adversary, I have looked for the potential and most importantly, the FUN.

FUN is hugely important. There was the time I was trapped under a bookcase after a ceiling collapse, well, I pretended I was a mountaineering librarian, trying to scale the north face of K-2. Or the time I set fire to a flat in Berlin, I just pretended I was terrified and afraid, having beat the flames down whilst naked.

In this case, the keyboard sticks on the space bar, so I often create new words. Like a cyberspace Shakespeare, the dodgy keyboard makes me tackle language anew (see?) ~

Favourite new words are: 'handin' : a task worth doing, 'belate' : to make something arrive early, 'anour' : a couple's love life, 'sinthus' : a really bad cold, "Millmew" : a cat's craving, and my favourite, 'forus' : two people working towards a common goal.

Now I don't mind at all the HEAVY EDITING OF ANYTHING I TYPE, as the text is slowly revealed over five minutes.

FUN.

Norfolk Bus Drivers

Dear bus drivers of Norfolk.

This is the 21st Century. People need punctuality. Just because you smoked glue at school in the 1970s and didn't get any qualifications does not mean that being 36 minutes late is acceptable. Some of us have lives to lead, things to do and friends to meet for coffee. Plus, the tiny five pence coin is legal tender, although I admit there were a lot of them, but I save my change for the bus; it's what people do. Perhaps if your eyes weren't forced into a permanent squint by your fat sweating man jowls, making your bald head look like a huge human thumb, then you would have seen them better.

Ghost Hunter Log #1

Ghost Hunter Log #1 : 10:07 am.

Went downstairs to examine apparatus laid from previous night. Girlfriend annoyed at talcum powder all over carpet to catch 'ghost foot prints'...no 'ghost foot prints' but lots of kitten paw prints over carpet, onto sofa, up curtains.

Baseline temperature test rendered ineffective by forgetting to turn off heating, timed to come on at 7 am. Girlfriend again annoyed that I then switched off heating at mains as she has to find instructions to re-programme it. Interestingly, kitten prints found ontop of boiler.

Girlfriend annoyed that I tied string to all the furniture in order to measure any kinetic movement and distance of movement, as she tripped over trying to clean talc off curtains.

Audio recording records an hour and a half of a kitten purring then suddenly stops; the dictaphone was found knocked off the mantelpiece. A possible lead?

Video recording rendered ineffective as kitten spends an hour playing with a letter for girlfriend infront of lens of camera. Camera then records kitten knocking dictaphone off mantelpiece with paw to then fall asleep infront of camera lens, bottom first.

Apparatus set up to record possible 'automatic writing', that of a piece of chalk set vertically in a wheeled caddy on top of a rectangle of black board, rendered useless by kitten paw prints all over blackboard.

Girlfriend annoyed by tooth and claw marks in a letter sent by her bank as it contained a cheque from Santander.

Girlfriend annoyed that all windows were taped shut in order to secure draughts from spoiling temperature and talc tests; girlfriend points out that it 'is not the 1930s', 'we do not live in Borley Rectory' and that we 'have double glazing'.

Girlfriend throws out my 'ghost hunter' cravat and pipe in exasperation, after kitten paw prints are found all over the desk in her studio. I manage to hide my 'ghost hunter' bullwhip.

End of ghost hunter log.

Private ~ Letters

 Private


23rd October 1902

Dear William,

I sincerely hope my words here find you well. I have taken your advice and walk each evening. I find I am increasingly dispondant to my usual pursuits. I seem to simply exist miserably. I am a victim, no doubt, of the saddening affliction that the colder weather brings. I long again for spring and summer, the longer days and balmy nights. I have been in a funk and walking eases something of the isolation and loneliness that singular living involves. The house is a modest cottage where I have retired after that bad business in the city. It was your doctor's orders to do this and without my books and my work I may have slipped even further. But the walking does help enormously. It was whilst walking tonight, enjoying as I was an unexpected clement day that an incident of some import occurred. The road between Buxton and Skeyton is a myriad of hedgerows and woodlands, interspersed with fords and by lanes, some leading away towards Aylsham, others continuing to Wroxham and beyond. I was pursuing a new course, adjacent to the road and off my beaten track when I noted a sign to some wood. 

The sign was old I think, 'Private' scrawled in hand written letters. I have always been naturally inquisitive and furthermore, have been a keen observer of that which is deemed irregular, indeed, if the action comes close to breaking the law, I must admit I am wont to test the waters, albeit without willfully crossing the threshold of decency and responsibility. So of course, I gleefully bounded over the short stone wall that partitioned the road and the scrub land, entering this private wood. My idea was simply to walk through the woods and no doubt observe some fantastic property on the other side, returning to the road with a boyish excitement that I had been daring. All to alleviate the continuing depression that I could feel impinging upon the reaches of my mind. I wandered, kicking small rocks and strolling through the trees, the strong and unexpected sunlight frittering through the branches. Birds were carousing their evening chorus and I was in good spirits. I would return and take up a book or maybe even write a few letters that I had been putting off, in short, I would engage myself fully to my existence.

 Happy, I turned to walk back to the road but was stuck by the sudden and alarming cessation of the birdsong. Nothing stirred. I was struck by how remarkably still the very air had become. But not only that William, I was suddenly absurdly tired, as if drugged. My limbs would not respond, I was dizzy and heady, as if taken by a fever. All about was quiet and even when I rested on the low branch of a nearby sycamore, it crumbled to dust against my weight, falling to the ground. I wanted to rest, to lie down and sleep. My dear friend, if you could have felt the fear of my situation, if you could have but felt that inexorable fatigue that pressed down on every sinew that was so slow to command! If it was not for the short distance I had walked, I suspect that I would have fallen unconscious there as night fell! But before I managed to bolster myself to escape, I swear I witnessed my own self bounding over the wall ahead as I had a few minutes before. In full view yet as if shrouded in a haze of heat or shimmering mist, the form strode, as I had done, to pass through my person, causing a shiver akin to someone passing over my grave. I stumbled out of the wood, onto the road again and gladly bathed in the last of the day's sun; the very rays revitalising me. I rushed home and took a little brandy, whereupon I sat and have penned this letter directly to you.

I cannot explain the absence of life in that woodland, anymore than I can explain my weakening of body and the hallucination.  I have read of places in this world where science can have no meaning and where time itself is like a coil, each part touching another so that one may pass through unhindered. Had I found such a place? A bubble of time exposed and discovered by my meandering self?

I would appreciate your thoughts William. We have been friends for sometime and I sincerely wish to discuss this further as I feel that the sunlight is indeed fading from view.

Your friend,

J.W

Private ~ Letter Two

1902

Dear William,

I returned last night to the woodland. I had passed another night of restless sleep as I have done these past months. Why do you not come? My experiences of that day all those months ago plays upon me, dressing my reason in absurd fancies; I am wearied by it now, to the point that I must regain the experience of the wood and thereby resolve this confusion.

Sleep is not easy and rest does not enter my body when I am awakened from these dreams; dreams of malice and forboding my friend, such dreams! I walked there again, as the sun began to sink, it's glow a reassurance but then! I was plunged into a darkness, shielded from the fading light by the canopy of trees overhead and I was fearful. There seemed to be light from the woodland ahead, a glow against the darkness, so I hurried to it, at least to rid myself of the awful sense that the dreams I had been experiencing in my half woken state should manifest themselves, and take me whereto I knew not where. I stumbled over a field , to approach the wood from the south.

And there! Before me, such fear at the sight that now I can barely set down the words without the pen shaking so violently from my grasp. I assure you I must retire, I must gather myself.

I saw again myself. Stood as I had been to begin with, as I had witnessed my person undertake the same distnace as I had done before; William, I saw myself stand and then vanish and as I did watch, the light that had filled the night with it's aura vanished too. I was alone, more alone than I have been in my entire life, and William, the sun was rising again. I had passed the night there in this state, time had had no meaning and I had passed it as if stepping simply through a door, as if I had fallen through a slip in time itself.

Dear God! What can it mean? Am I to go mad? Is this a paroxysm of the brain, my mind sick with a sullen morbidity that threatens to rid me of all rational sense? Or can it be truth? Yes, William, truth. For I have been aware of how very alive I felt at the first instance. I have been tired and worried, but I remember that I felt vital in my senses, as if washed clean by some unseen hand and powered by some force other than mine own.

William, I again take you into my confidence and implore you to join me here. We were friends at university and some time has passed since my last letter, yet no response. You have ever known me to be of sound mind. Come to East Anglia as my guest, observe me, let me take you to the wood that you might also witness this acute and perplexing occurance that is threatening my very life! I swear upon Nature! Upon the very laws you and I so keenly observed and documented. I ask you to see this as an opportunity that God, or Nature, or some power as yet unknown to the science of mankind has lain before me; as a great adventure! Lest I fall prey to it's effects and perish!

I beg you to come,

I await your reply,

In earnest hope,

John.

Several Poems for Children ~ The Planets

1. Mars Visitor

Once like our Earth,
And maybe once again.

My faithful probe extends
My reach,

Placing red rocks into
A basket for analysis.

But what was that,
To the left of the image?

Behind these alien
Stones so red?

Was it a creeping limb,
To close my camera lid?

The pink robe sky grows
Darker...

And I peer into my
Monitor,

Receiving these pictures,
From so very far.


2. Our friend, the Moon

We see him almost shocked,
His bright face looking
Down,

Luminous partner of a dark,
Clear night,

His mood we see in our
Oceans but
He sometimes slips away!

But peeks again gradually,
Over the lid of our dreams.

3. Approaching Jove

Slowing by retro rockets,
Burst silent in the dark,
Jupiter looms over everything
We see now...

Massive even at fifty million miles,
Huge winds move
Colours in immense powerful tides,
Amber red slicks, spilling into
Each other like paints run with water.

An invisible field locks
Strong around the ship,

The Great Storm is an eye,
Glaring at this tiny
Approaching Voyager.

Found Poetry ~ a series of my poems, found in my personal belongings.

Bottle

The planets hanging
In the half drunk bottle,
The galaxies strewn
In spheres resting, furiously
A nova and another,
Rip open in the infinity
Of the closed neck;
Terrible millions of an eternity
There, in the sight of a young
God, holding his creation
In trembling fingers.