Dean steps up

Wand moving forward:


In the last five years with Pret support we have delivered 3000 meals to street homeless, disabled,

dysfunctioning loners of all colours

Our theatre has taken us to Brighton, for a migrant family event, with Owltime called 'a privilege',

'should be on the school syllabus', and recently we even were part of volunteering with Chelsea sick children at C&W hospital

We have been approached by a call to nominate a Serbian for LPP (London Peace prize)

Only know recording

Anyone listened to Virginia Woolf on Words? It inspired me to a few of my own:

Words are hues in the air

Reaching out they dare

Like the ashes of animal sacrifice

To alter and incur new

Arrangements and belonging

In incarnadine oceans of longing

Jostle in a tribe, grow shy living with man,

With boy and whisper to eachother


Sometimes sit on the window ledge

Pulled on his boots and sits in

Nappies and coat. Looks longingly outside. Magnolias unfurling One by one Their wings curling giant butterflies Blink and they're gone


I have followed Ted Will to the garden gate when he raises

A hand, conducting his next games in which Mum or Laura excluded.

She is 'not allowed' to follow through the gate at Kew,

We are his Playground hovering over him, so he escapes


Jeremiah Wellbottom thinks his bottom holy

But really it is jelly and guacamole



By Kafkas Wife

The letter: It lay there.No, it’s not that could think about it for a while.The post arrives instantly, meanwhile flying over the need for a dark-haired beauty, in our mind of course, who with her yellow trolley fills up the whole of the pedestrian walkway, with her newspapers, catalogues, summons, warnings for overdue, penalty notices, family greeting cards and other unpleasant bills, towering over the street. If one wishes to go back even further, then one needs to enjoy looking at the wild suppositions, the knots of thoughts to the cafe where the piece of paper had to sit on the table between the coffee cup and the saltshaker, and to the fingertips which have to push the halting ink pen to meek, uncooperative letters.One must mention that I had a wish to reach the distant friend, my disappointment at the up to now missing answer to the other letters, which caused me to halt short of enthusiasm and exuberant openness and forced me to clam up.What is it about words on paper?Nothing is more uncompromising and divulging than a conversation without a spontaneous answer. A sort of monologue. As each dishonest written word is a stumbling block for the wished for flowing text. The reader of the letter can easily tell. Thumbs up, thumbs down, how redundant is: ‘I don’t know how to tell you what I think..’ In a conversation with a person in front of you, it would be easy to read it as as an unaccentuated, quick example of a person’s apology, looking for the right words. The empty phrases are easily forgiven as if by the attempt at conversation one might reach towards things one had not expected to say.A letter is different.How many of the incomplete thoughts end up in the dustbin, before one begins to think that one has attained expression of what one wished. No tone of voice, no pause, or gestures, or miming, but rather the running time, charting, repetition of word, sentence structure that is required of a conversational framework.Not to cross out small errors of choice of word in the general attempt to reach another.Now and then one reaches in writing a moment’s pause, as one considers if one has expressed a bit too close to bone, or ambiguous. The reader might not react, ultimately he might find it very binding, to read, it can make one feel panicked as driven into a corner, affronted, enforcing a decision which one might never have wished to make, or even in any case forced to react. Yes, yes, yes. How undependable, unforgiving is the written word. If the letter is actually read to the end, relieved, the name written with a flourish below the cheerful, farewell aphorism. Once finished the letter is then subject to reasonable consideration. With lipstick, biro, cough sweets it now shares its destiny. It is schlepped around, prudently past a couple of postboxes, and as the envelope is sealed, and one cannot change its contents anyway, at some point it is eventually in a high-spirited, generous mood dropped in. Yes.After a vigorous movement toward the receiver of the letter it commingles with the uniformly folded over hidden secrets, written revelations, forms, etc. becomes dogeared and attains a fine but grey patina. It reaches soon enough its goal. It has by now been several times superficially assessed, is thrown into an overflowing postbox, after it is opened it is filed away, and is put for a while on a perhaps dove-blue table.Mere speculation of course as to what will follow, perhaps it is a bit idle to think about the mood in which my reader picks it up. Perhaps he opens it hastily, or peels it back slowly, or skims across it, or reads every word, wonders, with a shake of his head, feels, understands or agrees. Whether surprised, or feeling near to me, who knows, I know I do not.The person waiting for a reply is in a fix.He awaits.He as a waiter can take it a bit lighter. Mind you in defence of my friend I should say: for the traveller it is difficult to regulate what is day, night or distance. It might best be described as a juggling, if one ball falls then another will soon be thrown in as a replacement.It is a difficult decision. Too much packaging is bad but also too much limitation.The dark-haired woman with the giant yellow trolley bag storms the last mailboxes and with a stoic calm shares out the important, unimportant and annoying lines. The hallway is full of the sounds of boxes clattering open as she stuffs the mouths of the boxes with monotonous rhythm, ending the wait or in some cases extending it.In my case the box remains empty, the errors of writing unreported, unanswered and so in my i magining alone I open the letter of a travelling friend.

The Email: He found me: I had first looked for him in google mail. That sounds like on Mars, or in the Matrix. He lives in London. I in Dresden.So now I sit in front of a bright monitor, in a bleak room, and the text seemingly jumps right out at me and has a presence as of a break-in. The spy on my laptop. Above middle to the lower right the message.It plops onto my computer display, instantly there, we are up-to-date, ready, nimble-fingered and amazingly intelligent. I hardly have the time to pause and wonder if I really am, it is taken for granted and then it leaves me wonder if everyone is cleverer or whether I am the one to fail to see that everyone is in a chorus and that is why no one notices I don't understand.Though maybe I am sitting in front of a giant monster that is controlling the world, so that we ants all run in the same direction. The IPhoneX. Everyone runs to the latest at the scent-brand, as though it were an extension of one's body, which once it has been mounted cannot be removed, only extended. A body part that is there solely to allow one to remove all, stand naked, in public, imaginatively, in public imaginatively, an octopus' arm of useless communicating. A tool for us in a fog of accountability.Wait though, before I give in to anxiety and self-doubt at what could be progress as a fast communication. Charlie wrote to me. And I start to resolve the text as it compresses in my brain. What does an email have that is so different? Why do these questions and answers appear overlapping. What is happening is a sort of impatience, a carelessness or is the mail actually advancing my ability to interpret at speed, so that by the end I have actually realised I forgot the start.It is as though the email would be a kind of outfoxing, associations, a card box even of smells as I remember the winter of 1991. See myself at Gatwick, without a penny in my pocket and the first person I ask the way speaks a strange dialect. But what is Charlie actually writing?Content!So to justify myself I must admit that I'm not sure at all, what is written because of my lacking English. At the same time I'm working on a translation of his pages of a long text, and am seriously wondering how we ever communicated 26 years ago?Maybe words are overvalued? Language at all? Do we all have to talk so much? Can we longer be silent? With each other and unconcerned about status and cognitive abilities.The letters in sentences, in paragraphs, in Times Roman, size 9, in an advised format, the log in, the google logo, that is displayed in the left top corner, there are hundreds of variations and thousands of synonyms, as though one were listening to music, as higher timbre they flood into one's head, not with sensual or haptic appreciation, but of a form of rationality, concerned only with knife-blade, sharp perception. I feel like I've had sugar, way too much sugar, the subtle hum of adverts, the addition of news, fakes, electronic triggers, my head is growing fatter and fatter, my brain collaborates with the sugar, without making any sense, digestive ability in flow.I'm off on a tangent.Yet that is exactly the point. The email cannot be held, I'm pulling it apart, but only answering in bits, yet there is the circle of confusion. Half-English, half-German, with a lot of subjects, relating to one mail, then replaced by another so we are stuffed with satellite-mail.No. No prose can develop, the whole thing is empty of meaning, the button for rubbish hovers on the screen.I try to lift myself out of chair, my brain clicking on assimilating stories that pop like soap bubbles.I play a long note on my flute, a d would be best and then a chord, on and on and on..and on.

Jean Findlay spoke and is still talking about Proustian memory and healing wounds...for Refugee Week

Jean is descended from CK Scott Moncrieff forced into exile,after being a fearless fighter in War, as homosexual (she was nominated for LAMBDA Award. This is particularly relevant with gay murderers still in Russia), with Bob Cooper, a passionate campaigner for rights and a Minister.


A letter Jean recently received which she talked of in Centre for Fiction, NY from a man relating working with war wounded from Iraq and Afghanistan, at Walter Reed recovery centre, said he read of Chasing Lost Time and CKSM's wounds with great interest..perhaps "beauty and rendering commonplace things that illuminated their beauty may have been important to Scott Moncrieff" So we "knit ourselves back together through memories, a creative process Re Membering," as Jean gently puts it.


Poet Bob Cooper is also coming with his new collection Everyone Turns

We all have a female and a male component, with


Feel very humbled by meeting and working with Ugandan Jade Jackson, who although she suffered torture, writes gratefully of "Freedom from Torture", formerly Medical Foundation as "a Mother to Millions of all colours" with PEN's Lucy Popescu she is now published and her moving poetry relevant to all; she writes of her forgotten country

Last spring we were interviewed for Women's Week Radio, invited all to play a piano on the beach,to Edinburgh, bringing many thousands to play music. We wish to continue building works in the South: Morphe is London, Crawley Brighton.."You won't heal anyone unless you have respect for their dignity" Jean Findlay, Jenny says in 'Enemy Territory' to doctor. She met legend Tadeusz Kantor, who let her uniquely study a year with him in Krakow, and she publishes beautiful memoirs, of those of perception

She with friends Sally and Lala supported some war veterans I met, inspiring me in my direction to show real life, as perceived and unadulterated..

Great, inspiring change,forward-moving:bring a poem or thought of your own


Street homeless and freedom

of expression

IN a big city like London Freedom of Expression, is often confused with ownership, or confiscated by owners

of big organisations, from Editors to political

newspapers telling us about disaster abroad.


Conflict far away or else in places that do not relate

to the needs of individual people.


Some of us have performed on local stages and

toured , in theatres

even the Roundhouse or Young Vic..


We are trying to give meaning to our lives by

making sense of conflicts and helping others to feel life in London has a meaning.



This is an open page for my thoughts of the day and events and people I might meet


'If you have a chance to support a cause, you take it,' I say to Laura and Charlie, talking

about community theatre we have done with Restart Lives, Jude Armani saw the video I did above, advertising workshops.. and found it amusing and 'excellent'..

I come across people of all kinds - creepy Christians, you know who say-

"Do you know WHO-Jesus-is"


I think you have to avoid them. I tell them: 'yeah of course I know Jesus. He stole my bin.'


They look at me confused.



'Yeah, he's my neighbour.' Then in sudden surprise I add: 'Do you know him as well?'


They look at me, hard and start to cotton on.


'O-that sort of neighbour.'


But I do like Christians, I go to the Dominion, Sundays, where Jason Statham came surrounded by reverential bodyguards. We were all told we had to exit out the back door, as he was leaving by the main one!



is daily life,

speaking to

people positively

about how

they can find a place

in the 'Jungle of Cities', as Brecht put it