Thank you all for your encouragement. I am still a long way from even 
starting to technically produce a prototype, but I have been on one of 
Kip's perf soc sci courses - facinating stuff, which will all be fed into 
the finished product one way or another. I can't promise a dance with my 
god-like body glowing with warm oil and wreathed in silken veils, but I 
will put something PSS in to thicken and enrich the experience for the 
reader-audience. I take the point of choosing carefully, and will remember 
it. The one comment I have had from my supervisor so far is to "aim for a 
particular audience" which seems like gooda dvice at this remove (2 more 
years).

My particular field is slightly off centre to soc sci in that it is to be 
an autoethnographic account about mental health service use, including me 
of course. To that end, I have been digging through my old poetry this 
evening and would like to offer you this piece. I wrote it at almost the 
beginning of my depression, and table it now that I feel strong enough to 
be vulnerable (as Caroline, for one, advocates in her book) - and I ask 
for critical comments and maybe a discussion around how it 'performs' for 
you:

***************************************************************************

Rest

25 May 1999

I was feeling wan and weary as I viewed the world unclearly
Through depression dark and dreary, past my pain and grief.
When there came a lady, caring; someone who did not fear sharing,
Helped my soul and life to pairing, closed once more my grave.

When I look to see my highlight; looking for elusive bright light;
All I see is endless dark night, fog surrounding me.
Through that darkness, damp and foggy; through the circling jungle, soggy;
Through the marsh, all mud and boggy came the light of hope.

Fearing demons wait to snatch it, take it down 'fore I can catch it;
Closely closely do I watch it, watch it coming near.
And at last the candle dimly passes 'twix my neighbours chimney
And my twitching hands held grimly out for Freedom's Host.

But the hot wick is a cold one; and the Freedom is a false one;
And the Dream merely a bad one, sent to pass the time.
Cruel is he who, pleasures taken, deems it sport our hopes to waken -
The haemorrhaging dawn half-broken over distant fields.

For he lacks the simplest credo, that a Freedom lost - as we know -
Is not stored in someone's ego; cannot be regained.
Is Man better left to Kismet, like the flea upon the carpet,
Jumping, as you walk close past it, looking for a host.

Seeking someone, seeking Some-Thing, even if it is the Wrong-Thing,
Better something Wrong than No-Thing: Nothing  in your soul.
I would rather live for one day, full of life, and jokes, and fun-play;
Lack of fear and hate and pain-day; one day - full of love.

Than be trapped forever, darkly, in this nightmare of a party,
Where my enemies will find me looking for an end.
Better live one life most fully; full of hope, and cheer, and jolly;
Free from debt, or tears, or folly: one life that breeds hope.

Better then to brave the deserts? or the freezing wastes of Edwards?
Than betray your inner partner, lying to yourself?
Show me now my Crib of Patience, where I'll rest until occasion
Shall disturb my slumber taken, resting for Eternity.

***********************************************************************

Thank you for reading this far at least.

By the way: Great good luck in March, though I doubt you'll need it!

Richard