Andrew MacLaren-Scott's Blog, page 104
February 1, 2014
January 31, 2014
Arrivals
This is long gone, this day. This today is a dead day walking, I realise most strongly as I recall the sound of my son's heart, while still in the womb, on the evening of his birth when a medic laid a stethoscope cup on my lady's taut belly and the microphone threw out the sound of a racing new heartbeat within her, thundering like a galloping horse's hooves. A new heart pumping so fast and so loud, as it echoed around the delivery room, and I realised completely and fully that there really was another person, my first-born child, about to emerge in that garishly lit small place.
And then the next shock was the total domination of the waves of biochemical insistence that overcame my lady's body, again and again – no going back – this child was coming out. And that our lives are at the complete mercy of chemical change became more vividly apparent to me than ever before.
Nervousness. Excitement. Awestruck as the orifice stretched impossibly wide and I moved my gaze back towards my lady's straining face as the medic peered inwards. And she announced, 'This baby is covered in thick dark hair.'
What! I panicked and the floor seemed to shift a little beneath my feet. Covered in thick black hair? After all the anxieties and all the reassurances, was I to be the father of some gross and hairy mutant?
'Oh yes,' she added, 'a fine mop of dark hair.'
Oh... Just on the head, did she mean? And I dared to look as the head popped out, and the neck, and back all pink and messy but all as it should be. Relief!
Until a few minutes later with the child away from us and being weighed a nurse declared, 'Your son has very long fingers...'
What! Long fingers? Was this the sign of some clinical abnormality? But fortunately she saw my alarm and smiled and reassured me with, 'Nice and long... just nice and long... Nothing not normal...'
Relief! And gradually as he was returned to his mother (His mother! My goodness! Life had changed...), but as he was returned I dared to believe that everything was fine, and that I was not the father of a hair-covered mutant with abnormally long fingers, but was the father of a normal baby boy. A boy who opened one eye and tried to look at me, and to whom I said, 'Hello.' And still he tried to look at me. He opened the other eye, and in his gaze I sensed, or perhaps just imagined, confusion.
And he had every reason to be confused. And at that time of birth and life beginning, my mind was stirring with thoughts of my own life ending, for, gloomy man that I am, I recognised this as the beginning of my own end with the arrival of the next generation. But I managed to be happy. Warm and happy, even amid such a confused mixing of thoughts of life and birth and death.
And in less than two years another child arrived, and she popped out so fast and easily I almost missed it, and then she screamed in loud complaint – a trait that would continue.
And the cycles of biology moved on as we continued with our circles round the sun, having now come 26 times round since I first heard that heartbeat pounding fast like a horse's hooves.
And then the next shock was the total domination of the waves of biochemical insistence that overcame my lady's body, again and again – no going back – this child was coming out. And that our lives are at the complete mercy of chemical change became more vividly apparent to me than ever before.
Nervousness. Excitement. Awestruck as the orifice stretched impossibly wide and I moved my gaze back towards my lady's straining face as the medic peered inwards. And she announced, 'This baby is covered in thick dark hair.'
What! I panicked and the floor seemed to shift a little beneath my feet. Covered in thick black hair? After all the anxieties and all the reassurances, was I to be the father of some gross and hairy mutant?
'Oh yes,' she added, 'a fine mop of dark hair.'
Oh... Just on the head, did she mean? And I dared to look as the head popped out, and the neck, and back all pink and messy but all as it should be. Relief!
Until a few minutes later with the child away from us and being weighed a nurse declared, 'Your son has very long fingers...'
What! Long fingers? Was this the sign of some clinical abnormality? But fortunately she saw my alarm and smiled and reassured me with, 'Nice and long... just nice and long... Nothing not normal...'
Relief! And gradually as he was returned to his mother (His mother! My goodness! Life had changed...), but as he was returned I dared to believe that everything was fine, and that I was not the father of a hair-covered mutant with abnormally long fingers, but was the father of a normal baby boy. A boy who opened one eye and tried to look at me, and to whom I said, 'Hello.' And still he tried to look at me. He opened the other eye, and in his gaze I sensed, or perhaps just imagined, confusion.
And he had every reason to be confused. And at that time of birth and life beginning, my mind was stirring with thoughts of my own life ending, for, gloomy man that I am, I recognised this as the beginning of my own end with the arrival of the next generation. But I managed to be happy. Warm and happy, even amid such a confused mixing of thoughts of life and birth and death.
And in less than two years another child arrived, and she popped out so fast and easily I almost missed it, and then she screamed in loud complaint – a trait that would continue.
And the cycles of biology moved on as we continued with our circles round the sun, having now come 26 times round since I first heard that heartbeat pounding fast like a horse's hooves.
A child in danger
One afternoon when I was about six I had wandered alone to the end of our street, further than I was actually allowed and just out of sight of my home. It was not the first time I had strayed too far, but this time a car drew up beside me and a man leaned across from his seat, wound down the passenger door window, smiled at me and said, 'Hello.'
It was said as if I should know him, and I was confused, because I couldn't remember who he was, although he looked friendly.
He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a big bag of sweets - lovely looking chocolates in bright coloured foil.
'Come in for some chocolates and a nice little drive,' he said, and it sounded like an adult's instruction, not a request.
'Come in for some choccies and I'll take you home. You can give the rest of the bag to your mum.'
I was close to getting in, because I was used to doing what adults told me, and I did step towards the car as he opened the door. But something suggested to me that this wasn't right. I don't remember ever having been told not to take sweets from strangers, or talk to them, but I probably had been. I stepped forward, looked at his toothy smile, then suddenly just said, 'No thanks. I've got to go somewhere.'
And I turned and ran back towards home as fast as I could manage.
I heard the car door slamming shut, very loud, then the noise of the engine coming up behind me. He drove alongside me at the slow pace that was still as fast as I could run. He looked at me as I looked at him, still running, then he slammed the accelerator down and sped away and out of my life.
I suppose it is possible that my young life might have only had an hour or so left to run, had my brain taken a different decision. It surely would not have been a pleasant afternoon whatever happened.
Instead, I was home in a few moments and soon became caught up in some game with my brother.
I didn't tell anyone. I don't know why not. I never have, until now.
Years later, when aged twelve, I had gone to the municipal swimming baths quite late, all alone, just in time for the last session before they closed. The pool was quiet, with only a dozen or so swimmers, and I noticed one of the attendants taking a close interest in my every move. I decided he must be thinking I was a good swimmer, which I wasn't at all, but I was vain and already obsessed with what other people thought of me. So I kept swimming past his chair as fast as I could, which was not very fast, and when he smiled at me I smiled back.
As the session ended and the pool emptied he followed me back to my cubicle, looking over the top of the chest-level door just as I swung it closed.
'You're a good swimmer,' he said, 'but you could be a lot better. Do you want to stay behind for some free lessons? I've coached some boys up to winning medals.'
I was flattered. I said yes. He told me not to get dressed but just to dry myself down and sit and wait.
'Wait until everyone else has gone,' he commanded, 'because I don't want anyone else trying to get my help for free.'
So I waited, and the other cubicles emptied, until there was just one customer left - a woman on the other side of the pool who I could see over the top of her cubicle door. She was brushing her hair as half of the lights went out and the pool looked dark and suddenly rather threatening.
And then I heard a whispered voice that said, 'I've got one. I've got him waiting in there for us. I bet he's got a lovely wee arse.'
It sounded like the attendant, and I was old enough to panic at those words - jumping up from the bench and throwing my clothes on, struggling to tie my shoe laces, when suddenly his head was bending over the door and he was shouting, angrily, 'I told you not to dress!'
'I've got to go,' I wailed, 'I forgot what time it was. My Dad will be waiting outside,' which was a lie.
He glared at me. A frightening evil glare, and then he pulled open the door a little, looked quickly to one side, then banged it closed again really hard.
As he walked away I squeezed out and ran for the exit, and noticed he had another male colleague standing beside him. They seemed to be arguing as I escaped, though I couldn't make out their words.
The woman was just adjusting her hair at a mirror on the poolside wall by then. I think the attendant had noticed her just before he had slammed the cubicle door. And so I made it out into the darkening evening, and home alone on the bus.
I didn't tell anyone. I don't know why not. I never have, until now.
And that worries me now.
It was said as if I should know him, and I was confused, because I couldn't remember who he was, although he looked friendly.
He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a big bag of sweets - lovely looking chocolates in bright coloured foil.
'Come in for some chocolates and a nice little drive,' he said, and it sounded like an adult's instruction, not a request.
'Come in for some choccies and I'll take you home. You can give the rest of the bag to your mum.'
I was close to getting in, because I was used to doing what adults told me, and I did step towards the car as he opened the door. But something suggested to me that this wasn't right. I don't remember ever having been told not to take sweets from strangers, or talk to them, but I probably had been. I stepped forward, looked at his toothy smile, then suddenly just said, 'No thanks. I've got to go somewhere.'
And I turned and ran back towards home as fast as I could manage.
I heard the car door slamming shut, very loud, then the noise of the engine coming up behind me. He drove alongside me at the slow pace that was still as fast as I could run. He looked at me as I looked at him, still running, then he slammed the accelerator down and sped away and out of my life.
I suppose it is possible that my young life might have only had an hour or so left to run, had my brain taken a different decision. It surely would not have been a pleasant afternoon whatever happened.
Instead, I was home in a few moments and soon became caught up in some game with my brother.
I didn't tell anyone. I don't know why not. I never have, until now.
Years later, when aged twelve, I had gone to the municipal swimming baths quite late, all alone, just in time for the last session before they closed. The pool was quiet, with only a dozen or so swimmers, and I noticed one of the attendants taking a close interest in my every move. I decided he must be thinking I was a good swimmer, which I wasn't at all, but I was vain and already obsessed with what other people thought of me. So I kept swimming past his chair as fast as I could, which was not very fast, and when he smiled at me I smiled back.
As the session ended and the pool emptied he followed me back to my cubicle, looking over the top of the chest-level door just as I swung it closed.
'You're a good swimmer,' he said, 'but you could be a lot better. Do you want to stay behind for some free lessons? I've coached some boys up to winning medals.'
I was flattered. I said yes. He told me not to get dressed but just to dry myself down and sit and wait.
'Wait until everyone else has gone,' he commanded, 'because I don't want anyone else trying to get my help for free.'
So I waited, and the other cubicles emptied, until there was just one customer left - a woman on the other side of the pool who I could see over the top of her cubicle door. She was brushing her hair as half of the lights went out and the pool looked dark and suddenly rather threatening.
And then I heard a whispered voice that said, 'I've got one. I've got him waiting in there for us. I bet he's got a lovely wee arse.'
It sounded like the attendant, and I was old enough to panic at those words - jumping up from the bench and throwing my clothes on, struggling to tie my shoe laces, when suddenly his head was bending over the door and he was shouting, angrily, 'I told you not to dress!'
'I've got to go,' I wailed, 'I forgot what time it was. My Dad will be waiting outside,' which was a lie.
He glared at me. A frightening evil glare, and then he pulled open the door a little, looked quickly to one side, then banged it closed again really hard.
As he walked away I squeezed out and ran for the exit, and noticed he had another male colleague standing beside him. They seemed to be arguing as I escaped, though I couldn't make out their words.
The woman was just adjusting her hair at a mirror on the poolside wall by then. I think the attendant had noticed her just before he had slammed the cubicle door. And so I made it out into the darkening evening, and home alone on the bus.
I didn't tell anyone. I don't know why not. I never have, until now.
And that worries me now.
January 30, 2014
Mice, kids and a very fat lady
In the scruffy tenement block of flats in Leith, scene of the scaffolding pole commotion, two floors up a dark and dirty stairwell there lived the Gordon family who, from what I could ascertain, were essentially constructed out of pies, chips and cheap cola.
There were about six children - I never managed a proper headcount - a greasy fat mother and a skinny wiry man who only ever offered me a grunt, never any conversation. Often he would return home, presumably from work, slam shut his door, and immediately just shout out wildly in anger or outrage. We could hear him all up and down the stairwell, but could never really make out any words, or whether he was shouting at his family, or just screaming at life in general. It was an awesome noise to come from such a skinny little man. But there was never any sign of violence, and just a few moments after all this noise Mrs Gordon would often be seen waddling down the stair and across the road to the chip shop, returning with her big bag of pies, chips and cola.
She called me down to help her with a plumbing emergency one day, and I found a flat with essentially no furniture. Just one big sofa, a television, and various mattresses scattered across largely bare floors. There were a couple of rugs, I think, and various young children peered at me suspiciously, like worried kittens, as I tried to help with a leaking pipe. But it was the mice that struck me most. There were mice scampering about, seemingly fearless, running across the mattresses and bedclothes as if it was their place rather than that of the humans.
I made some comment about them, to which Mrs Gordon replied 'Oh I know. They're terrible. I've almost given up trying to catch them.' Then she added, as if it describing some perfectly normal pest control method, 'I manage to get quite a few of them with the vacuum cleaner, but some of the big ones get stuck in the pipe.'
Oh my goodness. And how did she deal with the poor mice that were stuck and struggling halfway up a vacuum pipe, I wonder?
Then there was the hot Summer with another baby on the way, and Mrs Gordon just grew bigger and bigger. Enormously pregnant. Then came the day when I met her on the stair as she struggled upwards, her huge belly jutting out, making it almost impossible for me to pass.
'Ah well, not long now eh?' I offered, cheerily.
She looked at me and frowned, clearly puzzled, then a wave of understanding seemed to come over her.
'I had my baby five weeks ago,' she said, rather coldly.
And I muttered some embarrassed words and vowed never again to assume that a woman might be pregnant, rather than just very fat.
There were about six children - I never managed a proper headcount - a greasy fat mother and a skinny wiry man who only ever offered me a grunt, never any conversation. Often he would return home, presumably from work, slam shut his door, and immediately just shout out wildly in anger or outrage. We could hear him all up and down the stairwell, but could never really make out any words, or whether he was shouting at his family, or just screaming at life in general. It was an awesome noise to come from such a skinny little man. But there was never any sign of violence, and just a few moments after all this noise Mrs Gordon would often be seen waddling down the stair and across the road to the chip shop, returning with her big bag of pies, chips and cola.
She called me down to help her with a plumbing emergency one day, and I found a flat with essentially no furniture. Just one big sofa, a television, and various mattresses scattered across largely bare floors. There were a couple of rugs, I think, and various young children peered at me suspiciously, like worried kittens, as I tried to help with a leaking pipe. But it was the mice that struck me most. There were mice scampering about, seemingly fearless, running across the mattresses and bedclothes as if it was their place rather than that of the humans.
I made some comment about them, to which Mrs Gordon replied 'Oh I know. They're terrible. I've almost given up trying to catch them.' Then she added, as if it describing some perfectly normal pest control method, 'I manage to get quite a few of them with the vacuum cleaner, but some of the big ones get stuck in the pipe.'
Oh my goodness. And how did she deal with the poor mice that were stuck and struggling halfway up a vacuum pipe, I wonder?
Then there was the hot Summer with another baby on the way, and Mrs Gordon just grew bigger and bigger. Enormously pregnant. Then came the day when I met her on the stair as she struggled upwards, her huge belly jutting out, making it almost impossible for me to pass.
'Ah well, not long now eh?' I offered, cheerily.
She looked at me and frowned, clearly puzzled, then a wave of understanding seemed to come over her.
'I had my baby five weeks ago,' she said, rather coldly.
And I muttered some embarrassed words and vowed never again to assume that a woman might be pregnant, rather than just very fat.
January 29, 2014
January 28, 2014
Walking Wednesday
just after midnight, completely alone
Whatever I am
If I shut one eye and look inwards and sideways with the other one I can see the front side of my nose and the arch of a lower eyebrow curving away to the right, and if I shut that eye and look through the opposite one I can see the other side of my nose and other eyebrow curving away up to the left, although it is not my nose really, nor my lower eyebrows, because I am just a mind trapped behind and inside of these external things that are not really a part of me. I, the real me, am a mind trapped inside a head, a prisoner in a skull, and with no proper understanding of what I really am, although an electrochemical creation of moving particles within a network of nerves might cover it, apparently, without revealing anything, really.
I have control over the movement of arms and hands and so a moment ago I was gently slapping at the sides of the head that contains me. Some people began looking at me as I wrote that. Other minds swivelling their electrochemically linked eyes to observe me, because slapping the sides of my head is not a very appropriate thing to do while sitting alone in a coffee shop with a large latte on the table in front of me... thinking the thoughts from inside this head, this damned big bony head, that I am trapped inside. Dammit. Sometimes I want out...
But anyway I am thinking a regular thought again, about the possible illusion of continuity that a consciousness creates each morning, on awakening, when in reality it is perhaps a completely new awakening into awareness, albeit one provided with unreliable memories of previous awakenings, such that each day is really a new life. And many of these these unique moments of conscious awareness I am remembering are of previous days experienced by people who I may naively claim to also have been me. I am currently recalling yet again an image burned into my mind from, I calculate, the summer of 1956 - the second summer of my existence. I now know it was a time of unusual heat and I must have been lying on my back in the pram, because in my memory I can still see the pebble-dash wall rising high above me, although I didn't know what it was back then. The dark pram canopy, half obscuring my view. The deep blue fifties sky high above, and me lying there looking up and wordlessly thinking 'What the heck is this then?'
If only I had known... Even though I still have no idea, of course.
But... Here I am still moving on, still absorbing new memories, still thinking, for a while at least.
To begin again, possibly, tomorrow morning, whatever I am.
I have control over the movement of arms and hands and so a moment ago I was gently slapping at the sides of the head that contains me. Some people began looking at me as I wrote that. Other minds swivelling their electrochemically linked eyes to observe me, because slapping the sides of my head is not a very appropriate thing to do while sitting alone in a coffee shop with a large latte on the table in front of me... thinking the thoughts from inside this head, this damned big bony head, that I am trapped inside. Dammit. Sometimes I want out...
But anyway I am thinking a regular thought again, about the possible illusion of continuity that a consciousness creates each morning, on awakening, when in reality it is perhaps a completely new awakening into awareness, albeit one provided with unreliable memories of previous awakenings, such that each day is really a new life. And many of these these unique moments of conscious awareness I am remembering are of previous days experienced by people who I may naively claim to also have been me. I am currently recalling yet again an image burned into my mind from, I calculate, the summer of 1956 - the second summer of my existence. I now know it was a time of unusual heat and I must have been lying on my back in the pram, because in my memory I can still see the pebble-dash wall rising high above me, although I didn't know what it was back then. The dark pram canopy, half obscuring my view. The deep blue fifties sky high above, and me lying there looking up and wordlessly thinking 'What the heck is this then?'
If only I had known... Even though I still have no idea, of course.
But... Here I am still moving on, still absorbing new memories, still thinking, for a while at least.
To begin again, possibly, tomorrow morning, whatever I am.
