Open letter to Gerry Butler II

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Dear Gerry

Twenty-five years almost to the day since your mythic departure from Scotland. Twenty-five years since we parted company and my life was turned on its head in ways even you could not possibly imagine. You helped make me the person I am today, so for that you have my heartfelt gratitude.

Thing is, I really need your help. Over the past seven years, I have written a memoir that is nearly ready to publish. It’s one of those stories that has to be told and you are the inciting incident. As with any inspirational memoir, others will benefit from it, only I don’t have the resources to iron out some of the legal issues.

I am so sorry to go public with this but my circumstances dictate that I have to. In the spirit of self-healing, please will you at least read it? I have just published the first two chapters on my website at mkmacinnes.com. For what it”s worth, there’s also a trailer.

Yours in good faith
Morgan

High Altar

A LONG long time ago in a far off town, some friends and I were invited to a swanky party at an abandoned Victorian monastery that had been converted into a corporate events venue. Rumour had it that back in the day the monks used to run their own moonshine.

II

ON FINDING ourselves a table, we could queue up at any of the seven feeding stations, themed according to each of the Deadly Sins. The catering staff were fitted with horns and forked tails.

After the buffet and the band, the venue became an instant nightclub, the dance floor in front of the High Altar, the music leaning towards anything with a deep base and a strong beat. Lasers and soft psychedelics blended into stained glass, dry ice oozed from the seams.

Doof. Doof.  Doof. Doof.
Doof. Doof.  Doof. Doof.

I itched to join in the revelry but couldn’t bring myself. Haunted by an image from Sunday School of a psychotic-looking Jesus wrecking the Temple because it had been put to wordly use, I declined all attempts to drag me onto the floor.

Until I raised my eyes, I hadn’t paid much attention to the dying Christ suspended from the rafters. The thorns, the twisted expression of pain and suffering, sinews taut, a cloth barely covering his dignity, the unimaginable sorrow of a man in his final moments.

And punching the air beneath the feet of the naked guy nailed to the cross was the tall man wearing a jumper and a dog collar, his sweaty face gleaming through the fog. The vicar.

Dear God, I’ve seen it all now.

A subtle movement above his head caught my eye. The painted wooden crucifix swung back and forth like a pendulum. Hardly blinking for several minutes, I could see the movements become more pronounced. One swing now for every four doofs.

I ran my eyes up and down, looking for the weakest point. The pendant hung from two long metal chains, hooked onto rings attached to a high wooden beam. Beyond that, it was hard to tell what was what.

But one thing was certain. That crucifix weighed a tonne and it had a life of its own. I could see it all now. The plummet, the loud crash, the gasps, the cloud of dust, the horror as it smashed into the minister and his immediate entourage.

Images of screaming choir boys in St Paul’s Cathedral, a mummified Richard Burton lying in a hospital bed. The bit of paper at the end of the movie scrawled with the words ‘Windscale’ … The Medusa Touch. How little it would take to bring that lot down. I should be careful not to think on it too hard. I might cause it.

And didn’t I know just how easy it was for those screws to come loose. Oh yes, I had watched episode upon episode of CSI. I had just seen the one where the house collapsed because the sonic boom of low-flying aircraft made the screws drop out of the walls …

I could see it now, JESUS SPLATS RAVING VICAR. Great headline … very messy …

Swing. Doof, doof, doof, doof. Swing …

III

I CAN only assume that everyone survived. My friends and I left before we had a chance to find out.

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes

Open letter to Gerry Butler

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Dear Gerry

Twenty-five years almost to the day since your mythic departure from Scotland. Twenty-five years since we parted company and my life was turned on its head in ways even you could not possibly imagine. You helped make me the person I am today, so for that you have my heartfelt gratitude.

Thing is, I really need your help. Over the past seven years, I have written a memoir that is nearly ready to publish. It’s one of those stories that has to be told and you are the inciting incident. As with any inspirational memoir, others will benefit from it, only I don’t have the resources to iron out some of the legal issues.

I am so sorry to go public with this but my circumstances dictate that I have to. In the spirit of self-healing, please will you at least read it? I have just published the first two chapters on my website here. For what it”s worth, there’s also a trailer here.

Yours in good faith
Morgan

THE LOST SECRET (first two chapters)

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For reasons that I won’t go into here, I have decided to scrap any attempt to sell my ‘mini-book’ on Amazon. Why it’s only two chapters and only on Kindle needs too much explanation. Instead, it is available here via the link below. This may be temporary, it may be permanent, I don’t know. We’ll see where this goes.

You can read the first two chapters here.

Although this offering is free, donations are gratefully accepted.

Who needs drugs?

Let’s go on a day trip.

To the country?’

No, not exactly. We just nip to the place

where the very walls vibrate their way

from being oh-so-matter-of-factly Georgian

and into a realm of bristling auras and dizzy spells

and sages who know there’s a very fine line between heaven and hell.

.

The Beast lurks in every corner,

the carpet waxed while the moon is on the wane.

It’s hard to feel relaxed

when the Eye that Sees All is upon you

in the name of the infernal Pantheon,

who shall remain shameless

but who we all know and love

as they watch from above

the chess-ridden hall of nameless pawns

who were shot down in flames.

.

And the Book of the Dead teeters

on the brink of a shelf-ful of dust,’

while Madam Blavatsky, screwed to the wall,

struggles to think.

Tales of alchemical lust in the back rooms linger ….

Here lies deceit – and exploded hearts,

every …

so often …

missing …

a beat.

.

It’s not very hard in a place such as this,

to enter the twilight,

cross the veil into the Abyss,

beyond the pale

where devils kiss.

.

Copyright Morgan MacInnes (c) 2000

The Cairnpapple Mystery

Take me to Cairnpapple,

where the stars knowingly wink

and the sky drops little hints

of more universal love

than it knows with what to do,

where spy satellites blink –

in disbelief perhaps

of what they know is true.

.

I hear the earth moves at Cairnpapple,

trembling to her very core.

Some primal rhythm re-enacting

in divine blissful harmony.

Mother Earth’s ground

herself into a frenzy, crying out for more,

as once more golden dawn

penetrates her hallowed mound.

.

So little death at Cairnpapple …

Ripe within the heavy womb

of the sleeping goddess

the stirrings of a new world order,

her Moon reflected in a stray grey hare.

And the Reaper, standing by the ancient tomb,

smiles on with a wry knowingness

of a new vibration in the air.

.

Yes, take me to Cairnpapple,

where powerful waves wash o’er

this mind-blown microcosm.

Wild energies pulsate,

as all is satiated, drowned

beneath the windswept Tower,

and the World that was can pass away

and we are nowhere to be found.

 

Copyright (c) Morgan MacInnes 1998

Brothers in Arms

templar

TO THE strains of Dire Straits, I am surrounded by battle in its last throes, a sea of mud everywhere. These fields of destruction, baptisms of fire, I’ve witnessed your suffering, every man has to die …

But not just yet. A trapped horseman is pulled from between his fallen mount and the mire. Am I the one being pulled or the one doing the pulling? I can’t tell which of us is which.

I do not know where I am or who I am other than that I am a man. And I know not how I know but the other man is Rab …

* * * * *

BOTH RAB and I fluttered in the same social circle. For me anyway, the sense of having met before was instantaneous.

It was while walking along a busy street only days after our introduction that I was hit with the cinematic picture of horses flopping about in the mud and an intense feeling of loyalty, brother to brother. I had never had a ‘vision’ with audio before.

Somewhere between a week and two weeks later, I meandered through Leith Links, on my way to the house of the mutual friend who had introduced us. Having never taken that particular route before, I scanned the open green and surrounding buildings. As I did so, got a strong impression of mud where there should have been grass.

The answer to my immediate question came quickly and without the asking. It was my friend who told me that here in the middle of the 16th century, the French had occupied Leith, until they were forcibly removed by the English army in 1560. Like most Scots, I had never heard of the Battle of Leith Links, or rather the Siege of Leith.

A short time later, Rab and I found ourselves blethering – as we were prone to do – like there was no tomorrow. Only this time our conversation took a more spooky turn than usual. Ghosts, dreams, you name it. The situation was ripe for bringing my battle vision into the conversation.

Thing is, Rab beat me to it …

“I’ve been having this recurring dream,” he said. “Well, actually, it’s more like a vision coz I only get it when I’m awake during the day.”

I know what he is going to say. Baited breath.

“I’m in a battle and I’m being pulled out from under a horse.”

I felt my face turn to rubber. It must have blanched, for he said “Not you as well.”

Up to that point, I had told no-one.

I choked “Was it a muddy battlefield?”

“Yes,” came the whisper.

Copyright (c) M K MacInnes

The Lost Secret – extract

WHEN I published my first short story collection, Close Call: Short and Bittersweet, five years ago, I dedicated it to ‘the two Gerries, without the shadow of whose memory this my first book would never have seen the light of day’. My brother asked me who the other Gerry was and I told him it was a veiled reference to our late mother’s schizophrenia (she was a Gerry too). Well, that was only partly true. My choice of words was designed to be ambiguous. So in effect, I lied … the other Gerry was Gerry Butler.

Learn more here.

View from a Clifftop

clifftop

WHEN I reeased the first instalment of my memoir three weeks ago, I was already in a quandary. I had two selling points (USPs): one the story itself, the other the identity of my master catalyst. The latter was always going to be the bigger draw in the longer term but I was wedded to relying on the strength of the story alone to make the first few sales; the secondary selling point would come into play all by itself thereafter, whether I liked it or not. Each USP brought with it two diametrically-opposing audiences – theoretically at least, my target market would require very little explanation of what they were reading, while the mainstream end of the spectrum might get the wrong end of the stick entirely.

I won’t bore you with the details but in the end, the diminutive size of my offering as an unknown author on a single platform, with no reviews, turned out to be a bigger barrier than I thought. And I guess in the middle of a pandemic, people want to know what they’re letting themselves in for, assuming they still have enough disposable income to indulge their reading habits.

Now, after two weeks of trying to figure out how to salvage this and coming close to throwing in the towel, reality dictates I just have to grit my teeth and jump – again – only this time like I mean it. This means exploiting both my USPs.

So go ahead, click on FREE PREVIEW below, then check out the dedication (if it starts further on, you might have to rewind to the second page). If your interest isn’t piqued at that point, then at least I’ve done everything in my power. And if you do read on, a tasteful review once you’ve wrapped your head round it would be most gratefully appreciated.

The Lost Secret Revealed

COMING TO AMAZON
15 JULY 2020

PRE-ORDER NOW

ALL HER life Morgan has wanted to be a writer. Now in the wake of a failed marriage, her dreams are a thing of the past. When the chance recollection of a long forgotten memory and the daddy of all ghosts throws Morgan down a rabbit-hole the size of NORAAD, the only way out is to dig deeper.

The secret Morgan once had to guard at all costs and must do so again has a life – and a magic – all of its own. How did she forget something of such magnitude? When? And why?

Navigating the challenges of everyday life while ploughing through layers of unleashed memory and mind-altering synchronicities without the aid of a therapist is enough to drive her nearly insane. But then the grim task of investigating her own past takes Morgan into a realm of self-realisation that could only have been pre-destined, with a combination so elaborate, it could only have been fashioned by a Master Locksmith.

Now Morgan is sitting on the story of the century, aiming for the greatest Prize of all. But in order to reach it, she must find the one whose memory she protects and the very source of her darkest fear …

VIEWED as a case study in archetypal psychology, this brave and frank memoir explores the role of consciousness in shaping our destinies, backing up Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell’s insights into the very essence of the human and universal psyche. As a piece of storytelling alone, THE LOST SECRET is a spectacular modern day reworking of Ishtar’s mythic Descent into the Underworld …

Important note
This release consists of two chapters of an as yet to be published fuller work.