Hugely disappointed that my contact with a certain 'publication' came to nothing. I did out of courtesy send them a copy of my book for review - but they seem to have been unmoved in making any noteworthy comment. Nobody even replied to me: oh well that's the way it goes.
On another note, I finished a 'Stage Play' the other week. Was very tiresome and I did struggle, but I got through it. Now I know just how hard the craft of acting is. You have to draw from what is inside you - and if there is nothing there and you struggle with fatigue, like I do, you might as well forget it!
I'm in the picture of 'it' underneath, looking quite glum. Photo credit: blipfoto.com/entry/2768885
Before I go, I wrote a piece of writing for my ongoing University project - it is published underneath.
My Walk of Memories: by Nathan
I opened my front door - I needed fresh air to remove the cobwebs that were sticking to my mind like threads of grimy cotton.
The descent down the promenade steps to the beach brought feelings. Feelings. Watching me from above in the murky clouds. And then voices. Children's voices carried in the wind like whispers. Then suddenly the wind touched my face, not in a blast - but like thin fingers. But the fingers were not alive. There were dead.
Their cold touch abruptly tapped into my feelings, which had resided in my subconscious like an embalmed corpse for years.
My eyes became moist when my memory recalled back to my childhood: early childhood. I was running through that 'Chingford Park', playing with my toys once again.
I giggled, as I pulled my squeaky pull-along-toy-dog. Next a cooing pigeon uplifted in flight when I tripped over my shoelaces. The result of this misfortune was that my face had been patterned with blades of olive grass. Then kids played on skateboards and dogs chased them, jaws covered in foam. I chuckled and bit on a liquorice stick. Then one of the dogs squatted down - and steaming shit squirted out of its arse.
Maybe those past childhood memories were echoes of my innocence and gullibility. Because they couldn't have been like' that' - for 'they' were never like that in the first place!
In an instant of eye flicks and a shift of momentum I was back: back walking in the present. A middle-aged lady smiled as she passed me by while walking her Labrador, and the brush of the waves on the seashore frothed like Vikings' Ale.
But for some reason the scent from the lady's 'perfume' lingered for a moment - and my stomach turned. 'It' reminded me of someone - was she real or a figment of my imagination? To be honest - I could not tell.
Time had no meaning as I ambled past that vandalised seating shelter: It waited for me like an ugly bully once again. I stopped and drew breaths. Maybe the shelter's shabby appearance reminded me of the decaying present I existed in. I coughed and wiped my moist eyes. My breath chilled my tongue and I hurried towards my home - wanting warmth, rest, and coffee, to stimulate my weary strength and eccentric mind.