Andrew MacLaren-Scott's Blog, page 19

Waiting for 1

27th February

27 February

In Memory (An Edinburgh lad)

Labelled difficult by those who could not get you to do what they wanted you to do

or to say what they wanted you to say

Labelled left by those expressing views to the so-called right of yours

and labelled right by those with views to the so-called left

Put in a labelled box on the basis of one specific view

while taking views that were such a complex mix from all across the range

Called negative when you tried to introduce some sense of reality into some ambitious dream

Called unrealistic when your thoughts threatened to disrupt another’s comfortable scheme

Told you believed there is no god

when all you had said was that you did not believe there is a god

while confronted by those unable see the vast distinction

You have upset, and have been upset

You have been unfair, unpleasant, foolish, and… oh, foolish, and foolish some more too

but sometimes wise, give you your due

Sometimes kind, true

You confessed your sins, but not to any priest

I heard

You messed things up, then messed some more when trying not to mess again

I saw

You tried to love, but failed

Have been loved, perhaps, perhaps not, but lost

Lived, and for too long, you sometimes said

And now, it’s done, you’ve died, you're dead

Now, you are… well no, you are not even dead

Just nothing now

Nothing, nothing, nothing, but a memory in my head

And I strive to remember every detail of that sole and final thing you said

The words, the groan, the grimace, gasp and clasp

Your most important message was your last

24th February

24 February

Wine before a win

A dose of red chemistry seemed to assist

Tree tracery

Desperate

Here I am back in familiar surroundings much sooner than expected. Events moved faster than I thought. Life is surprising sometimes. Surprisingly successful even, sometimes. And as I take this photo I am listening to a man behind me playing a harmonica and occasionally attempting to sing. He is small and thin, and seems old, and appears to have few teeth. To say that he is playing the harmonica is to exaggerate his skills. He blows in and out, breathing through the instrument. Then he wails, briefly. He stamps his feet, one black-trousered knee jerking up and down, up and down. He seems malnourished, unwashed. And he is always there: sucking, blowing, wailing, stamping. Always there. I thought of taking his photo. I pondered asking, and maybe putting a pound or two in his almost empty hat of coins in return for his permission; but it seemed an intrusion. He sucks, he blows, he wails, he stamps. He always does, seemingly endlessly; and I expect he always will, until one day he will no longer be there. I wonder what his story is? Maybe, just maybe, next time, I may ask. This time I just turn, walk past, and he shouts at me, as he shouts at everyone, as he always does. Not unfriendly. Shouting something seemingly friendly though a toothless gape, but unintelligible. And I walk on.

Then tonight... I discover a film about him: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=deHpd... and he can play a bit better than he was doing today, and though I called him old he is younger than me, but a bit more eh... worse from the wear, I would suggest.

And "Desperate"? The statue is of Desperate Dan

Persevering