04 May 2026 25 min read

Chapter 20. Life Takes Hold. Part 1

So last week I say:

I want you to identify the steps that will make life take hold in the mind of the person reading your memoir. As they work out, according to their values, what you actually mean. This meaning will evolve as their experiences evolve.

The 7-step quick version:

1. Uninhabitable Ball of Rock.

2. Cooling and Solidification.

3. Atmosphere Formulation.

1 — 3 steps are: techniques; structure; physical laws.

I want you to look for 4 serendipitous recent happenings: The first things that comes into your mind. Study mine if you need help.

Day 1

4. Water Delivery and Retention.

What is your event?
8-station mind-map it.

Day 2

5. The Iron Catastrophe.

What is your event?
8-station mind-map it.

Day 3

6. Formation of the Moon.

What is your event?
8-station mind-map it.

Day 4

7. Life Takes Hold.

Write a 12-word narrative.

I will upload my Life Takes Hold narrative next week.

This is how I create it.

Day 1. Wednesday 29.04.26.

So, we have how life takes hold steps 1—3 steps: Techniques. Structure.
Physical laws.

Following my intuition, I break step 4 Water Delivery and Retention/ Colin Grant into 8 parts.

I allocate a symbolic station to each.

Fallen Angel (The Protagonist)
Crosshatch Circle (The Theme/Backdrop)
The Mask (Something is Hidden)
Crescent Moon (A Cycle)
Split Rectangle (Change/Transition)
The World (Equator, Capricorn, Cancer, Ozone = Emotional Climate)
The Ghost (The Presence of the Past)
The Sword (The Final Choice/Resolution.) It can stab you to death. Or like Arthur, you can pull it from the stone.

I interpret the symbols like tarot cards.

Fallen Angel. Water is brought to the early planet via the bombardment of comets and meteors, which, along with outgassing from volcanoes, allows for the formation of oceans as the surface cools.

Crosshatch Circle. 30.03.26

Hi Colin

I hope you're well. You haven't replied to my 19.03.26 email, so sending a reminder.

Currently in my weekly newsletter Lindabrogan59.com I'm writing my memoir, MY MUM IS WHITE, based on my HOME Exhibition. That also teaches the reader how to write their memoir. Using 2 techniques I've developed over 25 years. 12-words. 8-stations.

Based on the laws of physics. They evolve the universe. Which evolves the stars. That evolves the elements. That builds the world of our story.

3. The Mask. September 2026,

I'm going to see Brian Cox's Emergence in Istanbul. I'm a law of the universe geek. But also, to give MY MUM IS WHITE the final polish. I would love to write a 1500-word WritersMosaic review about my experience of Emergence, linked to my method, and my memoir.

I am not expecting WritersMosaic to foot the bill for my flight, hotels or food. Just £127 admission fee. And £600 for the 1500 words article. This is a bargain. And an important transitional moment for me. I would really appreciate WritersMosaic's support.

4. Crescent Moon. 03.04.26

Hi Linda,

Great to hear from you. I first worked with Brian Cox when I was a BBC radio producer in the Science Unit twelve years ago. I appreciate that many find him inspiring and adorable but I am weary of the amount of attention he gets, even though he is undoubtedly a good communicator. I don't think WritersMosaic wants to add to the veneration that is a characteristic of our skewed culture of exceptionalism. There are lots of other scientists (including black and brown scientists) worthy of our attention.

So it's a no from me I'm afraid but good luck with memoir when it's published. We’ll see about reviewing etc. when it’s published.

Peace and love,

Colin

5. Split Rectangle. 03.04.26

Hi Colin

This is very small minded of you. I am not at all interested in Brian Cox as a person, whatever his colour. I am interested in the gig and what it does to my work and how I see the universe and my book. I am entitled to that whatever his colour bearing in mind I am half white.

6. The World. Also, I do feel very let down about reviews of my work:

2024. Factory International. In the Ruins of the Big House. I descend Bette Davis stairs in a denim ball gown to declare myself the mistress of my dad's plantation, using my white's mum's status. I ask to be reviewed. Not a peep from WritersMosaic.
2025, MY MUM IS WHITE. HOME Art Gallery. I exorcise half-caste ghosts in an 8-station forest. I ask to be reviewed. Not a peep from WritersMosaic.

7. The Ghost. Please reconsider. I feel WritersMosaic owes me. I promise not to make the article about Brian Cox, but about me, the experience of the work, the universe, the experience of Istanbul. I think it is rather dictatorial that you are saying I can only write about black or brown people. Something that has bothered me for a while. We, of course, read, do and listen to and remark on many cultures. We have done all our life.

8. The Sword. I'm looking forward to a quick response this time. As you can tell I'm rather pissed off. I should be able to express myself how I like, as a successful artist who is brown.

Linda

27.04.26

I haven’t heard anything yet.

Mind-map

Discoveries

Everything about Colin’s reply denies my story.

First, Colin covers my story over with his envy of Brian Cox.

2. What if it’s the internalised 8 pillars of caste at play?

Divine Will and the Laws of Nature
Heritability
Endogamy and the Control of Mating
Purity versus Pollution
Occupational Hierarchy
Dehumanisation and Stigma
Terror as Enforcement, Cruelty as a Means of Control
Inherent Superiority versus Inherent Inferiority

3. What if the legacy the 8-pillars engenders, is making Colin subconsciously affronted by my very existence. It flies in the face of God. Defies endogamy. I insubordinately ignore occupational hierarchy, by using art to declare myself a mistress. Fucking up the law of heritability. Exorcising half-caste ghosts questions inherent superiority, by asking what the fuck does half-caste really mean? And invites us to talk about what it feels like to live feeling the minute you are born you put a target on your mum’s back by polluting her purity. Am I even real?

4. Therefore, Colin’s subconscious wants to cut me off from my white mother.

5. Deny my mother.

6. Causing me to realise all I really have, ever have, is my white mother.

7. Colin’s radical cure cuts me off from the cultural panorama. Impoverishing my cultural experience. Cruelty as a Means of Control.

8. Causing a nutrient vitamin deficiency, like B12 in vegans. Endangering:

Normal functioning of the brain and nervous system.
Cognitive functioning or the ability to think.
Formation of red blood cells and anaemia.
Needed for DNA creation and regulation.
Possibly causing congenital abnormalities.

Day 2. Thursday. 30.04.26

Following my intuition, I break step 5. The Iron Catastrophe/ John McGrath into 8 parts. I allocate a symbol station to each.

Fallen Angel. The planet needs to differentiate its internal structure, causing heavy metals (iron and nickel) to sink to the centre, creating the metallic core and setting up the magnetic field necessary to protect the atmosphere.

Crosshatch Circle. 01.04.26

Hi John

I hope you are good. I am.

I am applying for: VILLA LENA FOUNDATION RESIDENCY 2027. Tuscany, Italy.

A not-for-profit organisation, supporting international contemporary artists. Located in the wild Tuscan countryside, an hour from Florence and Pisa. 500 hectares of woodland, rugged hills, olive groves and vineyards. Collaboration and exchange are founding principles. Artists will take part in weekly events, open studios and live in the villa at the centre of the estate.

The Mask. What I want to do: Portrait of a Soul:

Arts Council England is my patron. They tell me what my art is to be about. Even in the way they ask their questions. Churches are Caravaggio, Da Vinci, Angelo’s patrons. Investigating the connection, I want to do a Grand Tour in Italy. In a Fiat 500.
I want to A3 8-station mind-map: the painting; the artist; their audience; in situ. A triptych. Transform it into an 8ft x 8ft 8-station mind-map. I sell to a local, prestigious hotel. Connect with local artists. Local videographers. Draw the 8ft x 8ft kneeling in the church. An event. Document. Piggyback their social media. To attract a bigger crowd at the next location. Archive.

Crescent Moon. It is a living thesis exploring: cos of the church’s fucking interference — we will never know what kind of artist they were. Cos of the Arts Council's interference — we will never know what kind of an artist I was. Of course, along the journey I will blog every day, unravelling this.

Depending on when I am able to raise the funds, I will either plan my Grand Tour in Villa Lena; or turn my findings into a book at the end. Both using local knowledge. My trace, I leave in Villa Lena, will be the 8-station mind-maps I make while planning the beginning or the end.

Split Rectangle. Please will you write me a letter of recommendation? This is what they ask:

A letter of recommendation is highly recommended as part of the application. We strongly encourage applicants to attach a recommendation letter as it may significantly impact the selection process. There is no other direction, John, so here is their website in case it helps. https://www.villa-lena.org/

Linda x

The World. 06.01.26. Hi Linda, see below for a recommendation. I think you said you will just upload it, but if you would prefer it on PDF letterhead, just let me know. Good luck! Jx

The Ghost. To Whom it May Concern

Linda Brogan, who is applying for Villa Lena Foundation Residency in 2027 is an artist whose work I have admired for many years. When Artistic Director of Contact Theatre in Manchester, I commissioned her first major stage play, What’s in the Cat, which was co-produced with The Royal Court, transferring to London. More recently, as Artistic Director of Factory International and Manchester International Festival, I commissioned In the Ruins of the Big House, an immersive theatrical experience staged at Manchester’s newest and largest arts venue, Aviva Studios. In the 20 years between those projects, Linda has been one of the UK’s most adventurous and extraordinary theatre and multi-disciplinary artists, taking a journey from beautifully scripted plays to conceptual art works which challenge the very foundations of our society and norms.

I feel the need to do a MIND-MAP

Discoveries

1. Portrait of a Soul can take me around international festivals

2. I can stay in hotels. Beautiful hotel beds in beautiful places. See the world.

3. This is who I am.

Day 3. Friday 01.05.26

Yesterday I run out of mind-map space at station 3. Today I mind-map 4—7.

Discoveries

The church, disguised as the Arts Council, conditions me to be good, Lord. Good, Lord. In their eyes. In the eyes they share down the centuries with the church. That they change when they get home. The artist is sacrificed. The artist’s talent is sacrificed. The artist’s life is sacrificed. Begging bowl. The artist’s talent becomes their begging bowl.

I feel driven to do a 12-word narrative.

Title: Eclipse

Object: The moon

12-associations

1. We were eclipsed

2. The graveyard

3. Nottingham

4. Grateful

5. Sausages

6. Fake voices

7. Fake posh voices

8. Biscuits on saucers

9. Who you never were with your parents

Booker T Washington

11. Where is my mum in all this

12. Black women

Eclipse is an Art’s Council initiative in 2003. I think. Me and my friend Sonia drive to it. Nottingham. I don’t think we are friends then. We know each other. I have already said to her I love your poem when she comes off the stage in Battersea Art Centre. She looks like the consummate black female poet when she is delivering it. I also have to give that accolade to Cheryl Martin. But it’s not about Cheryl. And it is not about Sonia. It is about being eclipsed by an entire way of thinking that is as pertinent to us in our age, as punk is to Johnny Rotten. And the weird thing now is I realise I invite it.

I don’t know how to not invite it. Cos £3000 seems a lot of money back then. Is a lot of money back then. And I don’t know how to keep my knickers up in the arts any more than I know how to keep them up as a teenager. I am getting fucked left right and centre. I don’t know I am getting fucked left right and centre. It is as historic as the nosegay. Except I have not been armed with a nosegay. I am walking the streets of the arts totally unprotected. Genuinely thinking that the white man is better than me. Not the beer swilling types. The John McGraths of the world. The Ian Ricksons. Polly Teale’s partner.

Something in my psyche is making me grateful. Grateful that they look at a wretch like me. No, I do have an umbrella. I do have protection. I wear my streetwise proudly. Enormously. Like someone afraid of the sun in the desert. And maybe that helps me to be afflicted. Maybe that helps me think the average white man is better than me. The white men with the polished porcelain politician voices. With the right verbs and the right nouns. The fake voice. The fake posh voice. Which no matter how much they try in Eclipse, when we get to Nottingham, no matter how much the selected black women and black men put their biscuit on their saucer and talk clipped, they are fucked. It is obviously made up. Like Trevor McDonald. And Colin Grant. It is a politician’s voice. So, I am surrounded by politicians’ voices. And the one true statement I have is I can marry Bill Sykes. I can own that fucking dog. I can be Nancy. I have a real roll as Nancy. What the fuck roll do you have?

So, I’m going around as Nancy. Makes me authentic. £3000. For £3000 we are allowing them to teach us how to be good negro writer. How to upscale from the small stage to the big stage. None of us are that good on the small stage cos we don’t know who the fuck we are. We don’t know what the fuck we sound like. We just know the story that is being fed to us. Like Booker T. Washington tells them leaving slavery. Get a trade. And the missionaries uphold in the British colonies. The missionaries now raping the Jamaican, Barbadian, Trinidadian brains in different ways. Get a trade.

A non-white stage play is a fucking trade in 2003, manipulated by Arts Council England. The church of the arts. The missionaries. And people like John McGrath — I’m sorry John — who think, who think, they are doing good. Who don’t, couldn’t possibly, know, who I am, what I need. It has taken 20 years. No more than I could know what a lower middle class white boy feels in Cambridge or is it Oxford. But this is what I do know in 2003 — I would never presume to know. I would never conspire with some other people like me to train some other people like them. As Eclipse did with Isabel Someone the Anna Wintour of the 2003 Arts Council, and Pete Somebody, Nottingham’s AD.

Not even cos I’m a good person. But my generationally infected mind will not fucking dare. It will not fucking dare think I know more than them. That I can tell them in any way who they are. That I can arrange gigs that disadvantage them simply by arranging the gigs. Simply by giving them the label. Instead of just minding my own business and doing what I am good at, being a politician, running a cool building, and allowing them to flower in their own time.

Mountains and mountains of bacon and sausage in a Holiday Inn cover over my thoughts. A Holiday Inn is the equivalent of the Hotel La Pau now. I am somebody. I have arrived. Little understanding we are being eclipsed, I am being eclipsed. I am … But Linda never gets eclipsed. She’s a Reno girl. She’s a Moss Side girl. She kicks people in the chest. She stands up for her rights. Like her mother going next door and stabbing Mr Connelly with a twist handle tin opener for bullying his wife and giving her black eyes. She doesn’t even knock. She breaks the glass and lets herself in. And us, me and my 4 siblings, follow her like ducks. Duck mama grabs his tie in the kitchen. The rest of the family continue watching teatime TV. She grabs his tie in the kitchen. ‘You ever...’ He looks scared. He drops his hand. The one he is gonna use to slap Mrs Connelly. Her with skin the colour of margarine. I am never yellow. I kick people in the chest. We both rip tops off. I am a chip off the old block. So, on the 4^th day when they role the white woman in to tell us how to be a good black writer, I’ve had enough. ‘How the fuck can you tell us how to write a black story?’ Oh well, Michael, half Swedish/half African, almost dies of shock. You can’t talk to the mistress like that. He gets his best white voice on. 'You can’t talk to the mistress like that.' I’ve no fucking idea what the cunt actually says. I just remember the room. I just remember the room. The same semi-circle. The exact same semi-circle. We must guard the white woman at all costs. They don’t realise they are doing it. We must protect the mistress. Don’t fall Mistress. Mistress don’t fall. I fall from grace. I am a disgrace. Worsening as I pass the graveyard. Where is my mum in all this? She is beside me. Also misunderstood.

Who you never were with your parents. I think I mean the biscuit on your saucer. I think I mean the front room. And the cabinet. Maybe the others really do come from a family who insists on placing their biscuit on their saucer. Maybe it’s not that my mum is white, but she is Irish. Maybe she will never allow her oppressor to slip into her voice. And, she most definitely will say, “How can a spineless English bitch tell me how to write a story about an Irish woman oppressed for 800 years by the likes of you.’

Day 4. Saturday 02.05.26

The Sword. Among many significant projects, a particular landmark was The Reno Project, where Linda worked with a team of archaeologists to unearth the remains of a demolished nightclub, and collaborated with the community surrounding the nightclub to bring their stories to light. In all of these works, Linda takes a precise, unrelenting yet always celebratory approach to the histories lost through colonialism, racism and class prejudice. I have no doubt that time spent in the residency, developing ideas for her new work on The Grand Tour and the impacts of patronage, will be a rich experience for all involved.

John McGrath

Artistic Director Factory International/MIF

Title. Life Takes Hold. Part 1.

Object: Green Cabins

12 associations

Poppies
Sitting on the grass.
Love
Water
Sandwiches with their edges cut off
Beige shoes
The Reno door was here
Debating
Hitting the first wall
Driving to the cafe to have tea our 3rd journey
Being me
Projected on the ceiling.

I have done a marvellous thing. For all time, for all eternity, children of mixed-race, children that originate in the first Manchester wave who all know each other because of the Reno, even if they don't go. We know when they came from a family that don't go. My brother is a mixed-race lad like that. He can’t stand the pace. He isn't a criminal. He isn't an alpha male. He is just a worker. It is just the colour of his skin. It just so happens it is the colour of his skin. My sister Elaine is also like this. She is just a girl who has friends from all walks of life in school, who are still her friend today. You can count on her to be normal in all our conversations. Pam, and Val are anything but. The youngest 2. They are completely insane. I still love them though. But they can't be part of my life. It is too much strain. And one day someone will tell me one of them is dead. Or tell them I am dead. And we will no doubt be sorry we broke off contact. But there comes a point when you just need to save yourself. You just need to draw boundaries.

I draw boundaries with the Reno project. It begins with the: ‘and it will show both sides of me. My mum is white. But no one will believe me. To the world I am black.’ It is a big project I am proposing to the Royal Court. They love the idea. It is already on the table. I am asking the Arts Council for the dough to spend time with it. Plays always take time to get to the point when it is ready to show anyone. I am gonna get a famous white actress and a famous black actress to read chapters of my life. Chapters you have read here. And I know the white actress will get more empathy than the black actress even though the stories are from the same source. The story of my life. The play is happening inside the audience. And I know they will know what they have done when they are leaving. When they have been bombarded by the meteorites of the story of my life, life will take hold inside their heart that makes them aware they are prejudice. It does not matter to me if they tell anyone or not. I know they will know. Then I write. And it will show both sides of me. I mean as I am watching it, I will register that I am not all black, as I have grown to believe myself to be in the current climate of the Arts Council lumping us all together. And BAME lumping us all together. But no one will believe me. Except in the Reno. The only people who will know, are still in the Reno.

OPEN Sesame.

There is a crack. It is as if there is a crack in the back of a cave, and I sneak out
of the crack. It is a squeeze. And I enter a version of Narnia. I leave what I am
told is real, and walk into what I know is real. I walk to the Reno. Demolished
in 1986. The last time I go is after watching Sid and Nancy. August 1986. I am
tripping with the youngest Prouse. She takes her boot off. Actually, she is
fucking struggling to get her boot off. The place is heaving with Cornerhouse
Twats. Our first time. And you can tell they are annoyed but being polite
Cornerhouse Twats they aren’t saying anything. And she is really struggling to
get her boot off. And they won't look back. And we take to laughing. In that
fucking tripping laughing. Uncontrollably laughing. And they still won't look
back. And we're laughing worse. And suddenly her boot gives way. Splat. Twats
the seat in front of her. I may have pissed myself by now. I can't even breath.
Her face is bright red. Well, darker. She's laughing. Sid and Nancy are having
a hard time. For old times’ sake we go to the Reno after Roots. For old times’
sake. I don't know about her, but I haven't liked the music for years. Not since
Persian left.

It isn't the same.

It doesn't have that Goodfella's vibe. Part of going to the Reno is to be with
your own. It is only short of having someone announce you. And depending how
high up you are, is how much attention you get. I am pretty high up when I am
seeing the tallest highest-ranking ponce. White Mike. No, I never. well once.
but under my own volition to see what it is like. Fucking hate it. Think I’m
gonna die. I am with White Mike for a few months. In his Stetson. And his longline
coat. And his hotels. And his yellow fluffy towels when Bev is out earning
their dough. Beautiful Bev, as good looking as Naomi Campbell. And I am stood at
the top. Looking down on the Prouses. The woman of White Mike. 'How are you
Tiger?' Tom does in a Liverpool accent. We are already close. Laughing.

It doesn't have that Goodfella vibe. It is dark. And intense. Everyone is really
dancing. Really moving. Really intense. We stay for one drink. The love is gone.

The love returns with the green cabins. Fonso Buller is behind me. He never has his top on. Cos he's still got abs even at our age. We're 58. And he back-flips. Until
we point out the dole might be watching. He plants flowers in the first dirt.
But we're not at the first dirt yet. I'm clenched in fear. Fonso doesn't know
it. They haven't been through the fire of the arts. They are my babies. I am
their leader. These are my army. No one will fuck with me now. The fucking
cabin driver is fucking with me. Fonso isn't useful in this situation. I have
to summon all my courage. All my new found courage which begins when I am
swearing in the Arts Council. And they are looking at each other asking is she
swearing. And I am looking at myself in my new mirror, not the mirror that they
keep handing me, the real mirror, the mirror I find when I sit in the grass in
the poppies. The Reno's grave is covered in poppies the day I write the line no
one will believe me and I cross Alec Park, then Princess Rd, and I walk to the
Reno that is still under that empty ground. It is still under that empty
ground. I can hear them. I can hear us. We are still down there. We are buried
down there. We are buried without our mum. Our mum is gone. Our mum is
ostracised again. My mum is ostracised again. First by her family. Now by the
arts. Now by the USA government. Where is Barak Obama's mum? Halle Berry's mum as she dedicates her Oscar to all the black women out there. There is another
big athlete. And Tiger Woods when he shags out. Where are our fucking mums? Well, I've had enough of it. "You need to pick them back up. You need to pick the
cabins back up and put them in a horseshoe.’

Throughout the entire writing of the Arts Council application which includes swearing, I am envisaging the 3 green cabins in a horseshoe. They will face the excavation. The site happening. We can walk off site. And get a sandwich. And get some water. Brought by Suzy Mousah. Not yet. First — ‘You have to pick them back up.’ And I explain patiently. Cos even though he is a white man looking at me like I am a pestering black bitch, I am an artist. And you mate are a fucking lorry driver. I don’t say that. I just channel that. And watch him get out of his seat. And re-chain them. And put them in a horseshoe. Our courtyard garden where Suzy Mousah arrives each day for 3 weeks with Salford University Applied Archaeology flasks full of water. She fills in Mrs Prouse’s. June Prouse. Just up the street. Just up Barnhill Street. The next from the Reno. Suzy who is our site mother. Who’s fucking furious every day at the state of the canteen where she pops the flasks before she goes home to make our sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The courtyard where those who are not digging bask in the calm October sunshine, And those who are digging bask with their fellow diggers when they dare take a break because this is a mission. This is our fucking mission. No mixed-race kid, no descendant of half-caste that comes from us will ever think, ever again, unless they want to, that they are only black. They have rights in this world. And their white nana, great nana, does exist. And they're brain is capable of this kind of thinking. One of 6 finalists in the National Lottery Awards. We are one of 6 finalists. Peel Hall is another. A big fucking Francis Drake saved from death ship. A something to do with a prison and him who wrote Dorian Grey. I can't remember the others. And us. And Us. And US. That, my friend, is being better than everyone else.

The Reno door is here

The anthem of those in beige shoes and beige pants with no fucking inclination whatsoever to dig. But forgiven. Cos Stan is our final remaining member of the 3 tops tables. Gorgeous Stan as the eldest Prouse calls him. With a white mum who looks like Liz Taylor. Arms in the same position every day. Debating. ‘It was here.’ ‘It was here.’ Well. it can’t really be there.' But we don't interfere with him. Me or Sarah our marvellous archaeologist who minds her own business while they dig with one hand and smoke weed with the other. Who follows amazing archaeologist Andy's lead hitting the first wall to take us right to the Reno floor some 10 feet below when health and safety says we do a little bit for the community.

Projected on the marquee ceiling.

As Fonso fills the bonfire, the skill he learns living in Cornwall all these
years. With the white side of his nature. ‘What's below; so above.’ He should
have been a star. He is a star in the Reno. No night is right without him
banging a bottle on the table and whistling. All the Way. Let's go all the way.

And Frank's up. Our king. All 6 foot odd of him in his handmade navy suit that slims him down. But he's still sweating. They're in their dance-off. Fonso back flips. But nothing can match Frank’s face. He can't dance for fuck. But he can feel. All the Way. One of our favourite songs. Our. The community. The entire fucking club’s. That's why Persian is playing it now. It's not a grab a fanny tune. A make sure you're not on your own at the end of the night tune. It is. It has that sound to it. It’s not a someone, anyone's hand in your knickers’ tune. Nah, man, the Reno is mates for life.

Digging. Summoned in the first cafe visit. The gossips. The one's you tell to bring people to funerals. Posh cake. Posh tea and coffee on a veranda in our park, Alec Park, its scrolled veranda pillars built with Victorian slave money. They spread the word. 20 of them The disciples. That draw the memoirists. That draws the next level of nosiness. Oh, I didn’t know he/she thought like that. Oh, I didn't know that about them. Or they do. They do know that about them. But they didn't know they would share it. And as Natalie says, one of my chief fans — it releases shame. It makes us real. It gives us back us. It tells us where we come from. It give our kids and our grandkids window into our soul. Our offspring are beneath us now. They are beneath our teen photos with a pink tinge. Dancing. Our teenage pictures with a pink tinge being projected on the slant of the fairytale marquee, where Persian is playing on the same deck as Manchester International Festival under fairy lights the same as Manchester International Festival's. Melvyn at TUBES, and Nick at DBN Lighting, both giving me their equipment for 10% of its real price. I have to shout out to them. But also to me. I am your carpetbagger. Your snake oil seller. Your evangelist in tents. Roll-up, Roll-up. Come to the circus. Come to the fucking circus. Now when I look at you, I don’t feel that fire like I feel it once before.

Love does find us. Fonso is tapping the table. And somehow, somehow, we have adjusted ourselves to pattern the Reno. We've made a 3 top table vibe, and a Knights’ table vibe. I'm dancing in the Knights’ table zone now. But it ain't just dancing. It’s the one, the one I would have released in the Reno if I had had the guts. Being me. And they are hugging, loving, we are all dancing, we are all being who we were oppressing cos we were cool but loving that we were so fucking cool. We were beyond cool. 'We were our audience and our artists.' I think it is Fonso, or it might be the eldest Prouse when we are sat with the BBC or it may be ITV doing our interview in the second visit to our café in Alec Park, where once we fish for sticklebacks and take them home in jars to die. They buy our cake and our tea. And I take a back seat. Cos they are shining now. And they are letting out the artist they should have always been.

Driving to the cafe on our 3rd visit is my favourite. I'm in the car with Sarah the archaeologist. The handsome Taylor brothers Robert and Vance, who makes the projection for the ceiling, are in their own car. They are carrying people. There are other cars. More cars. We have finished. We're going to celebrate. A baby celebration for those in the inner circle. Those who make the projection. Those who design the tent. The producers. We are the producers. And we are saying a special goodbye. We are all equals. Even Posh Margaret. who loves her nickname now. Posh Margaret who digs with Salford Uni Archaeology all over England, and sweeps the Reno clean, even its brick walls, so it’s like a living room, for our look, show and tell day that ends in our fucking Reno ball.

Little bonus, you'd never expect. When we're mash up, and Persian knows it.

Link to the YouTube Reno Memoirs. https://www.youtube.com/@excavatingthereno1959

Link to Reno newsletter that documented everything. https://thereno.live/ Boy have I changed since. Some of the later Reno at the Whitworth Videos need re-uploading (YouTube accident.)

Homework

I want you to go back into Life Takes Hold steps 4. Water Delivery and Retention/ your event. And 5. The Iron Catastrophe/ your event. And let go. Listen to your heart as you experiment with combinations of 12-words, 8-station mind-maps, and their discoveries.

You never have to stare at a blank page again. You never have to worry where it will take you. Your subconscious is in control. Even of making decisions. Our life decisions' are a minimum of 94% subconscious.