Jimjan’s Journal

It took an insidious virus, recklessly allowed to spread, to make me see humanity at its worse. Everyone had their struggles, each their own sense of need. It was a difficult time, individuals having to isolate themselves from dear ones, going without physical contact, without face to face conversation, living alone, coping unaided. This is when I saw how humanity is divided into two types of people.

There are those who are born to survive, whatever challenges are flung at them. They remain sturdily on their feet, earthed, well-balanced, minding their own business, while the other type are the vitriolic vipers, seeking only trouble, criticism, nastiness, selfishly living for their own wants and desires.

Take the queue at the chemist, everyone, mostly, keeping to the social distancing rules, but a vaper, spewing his disgusting breath into the air, blowing down the line of people, potential droplets of COVID19 dripping upon the frontline, tending to at risk family at home. A buffoon standing too close to the person in front. Where had he been living? Mars, Pluto?

Then a child with her mum, a voice like a drum, banging into heads, sensible heads, trying to be safe. A child who broke free of the queue, sidled too close, squashed her nauseating nose on the window, thumped the automatic door opener, ignored her mum, glared, her painted eyebrows smudged, like a clown. She plainly heard the request to step away. She skipped past, singing, no I couldn’t call it singing, cawing ‘corona virus ‘ like a gremlin.

Everyone has their own way of dealing with things, some more obscure than others. Spouting angry words, negativity without thinking is not to be applauded. No, why cheer on monsters, irrational fiends who mustn’t see themselves. If they did, would they not cringe with shame?

But it’s not just hard times that make people bad, some are just nutcases and hard times flip them over the edge of the benevolent abyss. An excuse to be outspoken. Like the woman, precious over her pet and her belongings. A dog’s ball, the crown jewels of pet land.  Hear this and imagine.

“That’s my dog’s ball, shouted this fuming pipe of fury, her furry friend empty mouthed at her side. “I want your dog’s ball, just give me your thieving dog’s ball,” she continued in maniacal clips, the words bristling around Danny’s ears, his knees moist on the damp burn bank. He was knelt down, you see, hand guddling in the spring waters, not for the good of his health but to retrieve the ball for this guttural Macintosh wearing witch.

He would have given her his dear dog’s ball, but her attitude rubbed against his good manners, his charity and what rose was repellent spit. “No,” he said, simply.  Just that. The woman looked askance, her jaw dropping, looking more and more like her empty mouthed pooch than ever, and she stamped forward in her Barbers, not quite imparting the sound of a good hard thud, more a thwump, as the rubber waggled around her thin legs.

Danny stopped dooking for balls and eye-balled her, an iron stare. It was too much for Madame Macintosh. Her mouth twitched, her dog bitched, little barks worse than his bite, and she shouted out, a madwoman plain to see. “I’ll push you in,” she said through pursed lips, nastiness oozing through her dial.

That was it.  Danny had, had enough of her nonsense.  He stood, the said ball now bobbing down the burn.  Fk it, he thought, she can stick her ball.  “If you had acted like a sane person, a civilised human being who could understand that dogs will be dogs, my dog’s speciality retrieving balls and spinning them in the burn, I would have given you my dog’s ball. Instead, you shout at me, abuse me orally, threaten me. I will not give you my dog’s ball.”

Danny’s words bounded from his mouth, his dog bounced around his legs, a happy dog, walking on sunshine, immune to the woman’s wrath. She jumped back, tripping over a tree root, landing on her bony rear.  “Ah karma,” said Danny before walking off, dog walking dutifully behind him.

Instant Karma’s gonna get you, gonna look you right in the face, better get yourself together darling, join the human race.  Lyrics from a John Lennon number.  John with his striking individuality, was a pacifist, dreamer, a beautiful lyricist, liked satire and humour involving a play on words. He liked school and stuck in, distinctive, bright but then when he was eleven, he moved on to Quarry Bank, a more dictatorial establishment and here he lost respect for his teachers.

A lot of John’s songs were stirred by newspaper pieces, having been taught to read by his Uncle George, words taken from the newspaper headlines. And then his life, a talented, loved life, was taken away by one man’s wickedness. His body blasted with five point-blank shots from a gun.  The world mourned such a death, a senseless, avoidable death. But John lives on, he lives on in our homes, in our minds, in our ears, in our hearts if only through his music. This continues to soothe us, enlighten us, brighten us, romance us.

Danny entered his house, back in his safe harbour, his paintings blinking at him, winking, twinkling in the sunrays shining through his window.  The flowers in a vase crowning their glory, colours blending with the bright happy state, the cosiness of the room, the man, the character of whom was written in every article – a beautiful blue ginger jar, a Covenanter Plate, a very large pile of books, and cd’s.  A man at peace with himself.

He switched on the music. He loved his music. He loved John Lennon, the Beatles.  Who didn’t he was known to ask?  ‘Don’t let another day go by my love it’ll be just like starting over,’ blasted from the speakers and he sat and stroked Whiney Tim’s head.

The woman knew no such comfort.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The window was open, the sharp night breeze struck as she remembered…The stage was lit, no one there. Silence. The children were gone, dancing, skipping, singing, laughing, away with the flute playing minstrel and his rats. It began with the rats, did it not? Then vengeance was carried out and the young followed on. All but one.

The audience waited, their breath all that could be heard, except a cough, a shuffle, a chair squeaking scuffle. The lights came back on, spotlight bright, angled to the back left of the stage, where a movement could be seen, then a small child came out.

A child, so pale, delicate, on crutches. The little one limped into the middle of the stage, dwarfed by the curtains, the backdrop, even the space. She looked ahead for her friends, their shouts and laughter fading, her limbs failing, couldn’t keep up. They were gone and she was alone.

She spoke aloud, to the audience, the words of Robert Browning.

“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me.
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new.”

The child stood still, looked into the distance, leaning on crutches, her lame leg sore, her heart hurting. She’d had to stop, couldn’t keep up, had tried and tried, keen to move on with the wave of friends, the tide of happiness. But in the melee, the rush to see sparrows brighter than peacocks, honey-bees without their stings, horses with eagle’s wings, she floundered and stopped, too long. The children were gone. In a voice so sad, so soft, she spoke to the people, she’d lost the babble, her legs so feeble. Then a show of appreciation resounded loud… forward through the years.

She bowed at the window, her eyes full of tears, the neighbourhood was clapping in the darkness, faceless applause, whoops, cries, whistles eerily dancing between the houses, bumping off the warm bricks, the grey rooftiles, swirling down the chimneys.   A sensational moment, taking away the pain of listening to the children from the distance, keeping in mind the seriousness of the situation, feeling the difference in their lives, saying, “when can we do something different dad, we’ve done the same things every day?”

She was on stage again, the applause ringing through, singing in her ears, alone, on crutches no more, not visible ones anyhow. Her schooldays were over a long time ago and she looked upon the world with experienced eyes. The noise was loud, sitting mightily upon the dark veil of night, her heart beat hard, her voice was stilled, her hands hit together over and over. She saw him, he’s back, Pied Piper revived, the flute blowing minstrel, tunes galore.

“To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled.”

But a different kind of tune, no children stolen, no rats in sight, but there are people leaving. The adults now are leaving. Elderly, infirm, diseased, vulnerable, also some not in that class, are leaving, no explanation, but they are going, disappearing into that mountainous cavern. And here we are, the remaining ones, the little lame child, deserted, saddened, without their joy, their stories, their memories of life.

A boy waves a light, sings sweet praise. The cherry tree sighs, branches reaching out, stretching up, blossom curled, patiently waiting the sun from another day.

 

 

 

 

Do you hear

the music play

duos

chorals

dance like Jagger

how’s the figure

 

Keepin’ it down?

no too late

tipped up

the scale of C

let it be

B

 

G

E

Deeesaster

just sing

into town

with your sound

 

Get the bus

got free pass

not now

bus is out

I’ll take the car

if I can see through the haar

 

Of my mind

dusky

pathological

neuroses aflame

why how what began this germ

spreading like a venomous hum

 

Why eat

bats

rats

wildcats

when tomatoes are most sweet

red, yellow, grapes compete

 

Bad for dogs

do they know

feel

anxiety

can they sense fear

smell the cavalier

 

And the little ones

our Beloved

adored

rest assured

we’re told they’ll be saved

this time engraved

 

Off the scale

of temporal times

parents

teachers, nurses

doctors an inner mess

outwardly smiling, doing their best

 

Music prevails

the song of life

through strife

grief

hold on to that note

And belief, stay afloat

 

 

 

 

 

Buttercup moon
shines through the room
my moon, he says
through young fabled lips
how say, I ask
how ‘s that your moon
I found it
in my rocket
bounced off mars and
landed there
he said, thumbs up, head up
my astronaut
now back on earth
back to me
I see
But let me say
it’s everyone’s moon
because they see it in Oz
in Greenland too
America, Russia, Africa, China
the world so wide can see this moon
dance under this moon
sing to this moon
the world so big shares this moon
the waves sway to it
the wolves bay to it
some people pray to it
it’s hallowed
he mellowed
below the buttercup moon

I’m walking, the sun behind me, a halo of light around my ears. A saint. No, an illusion. I’m no saint.

Then what am I? Just a woman. A mother. Have been for more years than I haven’t been. Seems seamless but there are many stitches, threads bared, holes emerged. Motherhood is not without an oath or two.

It’s tough trying to make your babies good. Saints.

Are they? No, it’s just an illusion. They have babies now, they’re growing fast, oaths muffled around them, along with joy, sunshine and snow. The snow is falling, the sunshine gone. It’s dark now around my ears. Motherhood slips into oblivion, little growing children slip into oblivion, sun slips into oblivion, happiness turns into pretence. What is there now, I write? I write and I write until I can write no more.

What is writing anyhow. What am I? A writer? No, it’s just an illusion. I’ll write no more. I’ll just walk forward into the darkness, the snow melting on my cheeks, ageing cheeks. Trees, leaves alive, will survive, roots deep, branches high. My eyes want to cry but are dry, tearless worry hanging onto hope. I walk and walk, climb, climb up that hill, my heart beats fast, my breath puckers, it’s leaving my lungs in short sharp gasps. My lungs are white, freezing bags of air, or no air as they puff out shallow pants from me.

I’m breathless, airless. I’m getting old. I wish that was an illusion. I’m not the oldest, my mother is here. She’s older by twenty and five years, chased by tears, by fears, by cares. Who cares? She’s elderly with underlying health issues. Seems, no one cares.

The bigger family does. I do. I care, I’m a carer. No illusion.

 

I’m in the Old College Quad, protected by a high wall. I’ve donned my thermal vest, hat, gloves, warm jacket and scarf, but my legs are cold. A sign of ageing, the other sign, forgetting things, namely my thermal long johns. The blue badge guide soon assures us, we’ll be walking briskly on this tour and won’t feel the cold.

‘Us’ being retired people from a large Life Assurance Company. Retired, not as in out of business, sitting back, lounging on the sofa with coffee and cake, but doing things you never had time to do before, then afterwards, sitting down with coffee and cake.

My interest is aroused right away when told that the land where we stand was once owned by the Catholic Church, The Blackfriars land. Being a Monastery there would no doubt be bodies, some dug up in the process of cultivating a patch of lawn.

“Lord Darnley’s body was found over there,” the guide said, “after his house was blown up, found not under the rubble as you’d think but lying dead, under a pear tree perhaps, strangled outside the mound of stone and wood which had been his home.” The past came whistling back, as I stood, the silence of the listening pensioners hanging in the cold air, clear snot from their noses.

“Let’s move on,” our guide said and we followed, a line of colour, blue, purple, green, trotting, hobbling, the traffic and the bustle of people outside the quad bringing us back to the present, the green man beeping, the strong smell of coffee beans filtering through, a drunk staggering by, a near empty bottle of wine in his hand.

We reach the Royal College of Surgeons and a statue in the grounds, seen by me before, but not really seen. Ah, it’s a pair of hands holding a scalpel. Here we’re told about a surgeon called James Miranda Stuart Berry who studied at the University of Edinburgh Medical school, learning that transgender isn’t a new thing.

No, James was a woman, pretending to be a man and the reason simple – women were banned from study in Universities in the 19^th century. Even Florence Nightingale who nursed during the Crimean War had no idea James was a woman. It was only after her death that the truth became known.

I knew about writers taking men pen names like George Elliot, who was Mary Ann by birth, but I believe it was purely the name she used, dresses still covered her genteel frame. Why do some women think they have it bad now?

Down Drummond Street we see the piers that held the gates for the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, moved when the hospital was moved from Infirmary Street. Through wrought iron gates, down steps into a square we go, being told this was the original Royal College of Surgeons. We’re in a courtyard, buildings surrounding us, but not as it once was. These had been made for surgical medical wards, the surgeon’s houses slowly knocked down to make more room for beds.

Mr Robert Knox’s house torn down. He may not have been implicated in the horror of Burke and Hare’s body snatching spree, taking bodies to him, for anatomy training, but he couldn’t save his house being taken down. In fact, only one surgeon’s house remains in this historic site.

All the land here, behind the Flodden Wall, a continuation of Blackfriar’s land. Interestingly enough, the Flodden Wall was built by the women, the ordinary women, not the gentry, they were probably in convents, the men mostly dead. It wasn’t all bad – women were allowed to build walls in the 1800’s.

My tour ends at St Giles, around the side a plaque on carpark number 23 being where John Knox is buried. He’d turn in his grave, not wanting a monument or a plaque, somewhere for people to go to speak to him in death, this being a Catholic thing. Never mind John, there’s no candles and only seen when carless.

At the front of St Giles was where Deacon Brodie, a councillor and cabinet maker by day, thief by night was hung on the very gallows it was thought he’d worked on, after a fault had been found, criminals not dying outright. How short-sighted of him. However, horrible history has its place, this man’s life and death adding to all the other wonderful characters of my tour.

My blog, my flog, my slog, fog, grog.

Have an urge to write? I do. What better platform for writing, what better way to make me write and share it, than on a blog. My own exhibition room to write and share, release my thoughts, well only my saner ones, unload irritants.   Whether or not you read or enjoy my words, I write anyhow as it helps me experiment, gets a story down.

I’m not a showy person and don’t often blow my own trumpet, unless I’m playing with the silver band that is, and I’m not writing to show off, or thinking that my work is so good that everyone should read it. I’m simply writing for the experience of writing, fact or fiction or a mixture of both.

Along with my questionable shyness, I have an unquestionable lack of skills on these websites. How to make my blog look better? Beats me. The how to…gets me time after time. As a result, I’m not even sure if my blog looks tempting, to read.

Therefore, perhaps my thoughts this week are ones about ignorance.   Unfamiliarity can hold us back. Fear of breaking the laptop, always in the back of my mind, freezing my fingers. Can’t press that, don’t enter that, watch that. I was born in the late fifties and am therefore not one of the computer whiz kids that are around in droves now. Don’t get me wrong, I know a bit, but my four-year old grandson probably knows as much.

It’s the same with phones, and not only that but TV’s too. Nothing is straight forward anymore. Netflix, Youtube, Facebook on your TV and TV on your phone. It’s no wonder I’m mentally exhausted, the power to think escaping through the open pores on my chin. Which reminds me. Youtube video viewing presents Trinny Woodall from Trinny and Susanna, British fashion advisers. Trinny is advertising a magic cream to hide flaws on your face. It looks miraculous, but like my fear of breaking my laptop I also have a fear of breaking my bank. “I’ll pass thank you very much Trinny, but you do look gorgeous.”

But wait…How to Look like a rock chick…sorry, I got distracted there and deviated. Let’s get back to the topic.

Technology. I do try to get on with it, after all I haven’t thrown the laptop out the window yet. I do my best to get around it, in my own way, slow, methodical, painstaking, a number of profanities, flying from my mouth to the lamplights, to the burning filament. I am a lady, however and ladies don’t swear, so please don’t tell anyone. It shall be our little secret.

My efforts to set up this blog weren’t without troubles, but I stuck at it, and here we are. Perhaps not perfect, but hey, quirky is good isn’t it? I try to put a picture along with each post, to add a visual connection, and I would prefer to have the visual first, but not sure how to do this.

So, for now, I’ll keep doing what I’m doing. Popping on a few words now and again, hopefully light-hearted texts, to warm a soul on these cold days of winter, leading into Spring.

 

 

 

 

 

Serious, steady, no smiles today
I’m busy with my playtime battles, I say
Join me in peace or take me down
but I’ll beat you every time
with merely my frown

My world is here in the city of hills
I know nothing more, there are no frills
We make our money, we work hard
Childhood becomes manhood
with me on my guard

Shoulders are squared, to protect those close
My family, my duty, the man of the house
Forever watch full, eye on the ball
No one will harm us
I won’t let us fall

The passage of time changes my life
Dependant, grown, I find a wife
Mortality rears up, tears at our hearts
Grief slows me down
as mother departs

Her legacy lives on in my children and in me
A look, a phrase, so I let it be
Through her, I find strength and I sense her there
Leading, helping
laying her love bare

Human decline is slow, seemingly

invisible as it gathers, the sub conscious assembles,

tiny spots of realisation seeping through,

like a sponge that’s drip dripping water

Grey walls aware of the preordained

but hiding under skeins of fibrous matter

 

We have to face all life’s dramas

which painfully present themselves to us

The death of loved ones, shocking

heart-breaking, feeling the struggle as you scuffle on,

too old to party, too young to mourn,

another piece of your jigsaw gone

 

Realign some years later, adapt again

because hips are sore, bone rubs on bone

A car crushed, not crashed, but scrapped,

tearing at your independence, as it’s taken away

and in the mirror of your reflection

your eyes let you down with a macular decay

 

Combine all that with fluid on the lungs,

heart failure, a hard pill to swallow

Doctor sets to in a scratchy vein attack,

an intravenous dose to flush you, rid you of fluid,

infirmity writhing, slithers down, struggles up,

no care for your dignity, how utterly horrid

 

Fine ten days later, no doctors around,

instead seeing red, winter berry shine,

your intense independence reappeared,

your strength regained, reclaimed and yet deaf ears

make me shout, but with annoyance, sneaks out,

then curling, shrinking, sears, denial never veers

 

By design a robin appears, rummages, flutters,

crimson breast flashing in crackling leaves

Breath turns shallow, heartbeat trembles, in the winter of life

as it swirls around, sweeping, moaning, pulling each way,

cold and brittle, spraying dust, as we must

But a little longer here on earth I pray

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind.” The lyrics lulled me as I walked from my house, acquaintances forgotten already, trampled under each footfall, the hard tarmac unyielding under my walking shoes, bright pink laces flapping with each kick. I walked with determination, anger even, at what I’m not sure, trying to outrun the rupturing mulch of my mind. It’s another first of January, the time for thinking of lost loved ones, for congratulating your fellowmen on either surviving a crap year or enjoying a good year, good wishes for the coming year, kissed into the air.
It was dim, the sky hung, limp and grey. “What shall this new beginning bring?” I asked of no one but myself. I was alone, time to think. The hills loomed, and trees waved their morning tidings. “Come walk amongst us,” they seemed to say, and like a sleepwalker, I walked towards them.
Hat low on forehead, eyes covered with shades, looking strange in the dullness I knew, but no matter. Head held high, carrying with me my idiosyncrasies, I strode forward, feet slopping on the damp, leafy sodden paths, with a heart I could say was neither light, nor heavy. It was just it, beating softly behind my cage of ribs.
This town had grown somewhat over time, since I was a lass, but there are areas which remain the same. I was led by my sense of adventure towards those parts and stopped for a moment at a hole in the hedgerow. Looking down I saw the wet grass, not too long, trodden down by frost and cold air, air as cold as the frost that had lain there yesterday, today, the first day of January, gone, temperatures as variable as a toddler’s mood.
Nevertheless, it looked passable, so I jumped down through the gap and made my way uphill, reaching a newly sown field, the smell of earth spreading around my nasal passages. Grass peeped through the soil, delicate green shards making their way heavenwards, following the light and so I followed the trail around the bright spikes, climate changes sputtering within a bubble of gas.
A woodpecker trilled, then tapped, knocking on wood, its efforts echoing across the field, reaching my muffled ears; my hat was well down, covering them. I looked over towards the trees, bark skinned giants, bordering the field, protecting its growth, sheltering small animals and birds, feeding the deer, their covering a delicacy I’m told. My legs wanted to walk over to those trees, I wanted to find the bird, the illusive woodpecker, never yet in all my years laying eyes on one, but instead I kept on my route, away from the pines and the oaks.
I looked down over my town. There was my house, my rusty red roof. My school, my playground, my life. There was my life, laid out before me, flashes of fun, of laughter, of tears. For a while I’d felt distanced from my home town, I didn’t belong, knowing not where I actually belonged. I was lost within myself, searching for a way out, looking for a path to happiness.
But today, scanning the fields, the Pentland Hills, the trees, the houses, tiered up the slope, I recognised my home town. I had a thousand and one memories here. “There used to be a fence here Bailey,” I said to my late dog, as if she was still walking by my side. “You used to jump the fence, in one easy leap, until age hampered you and I had to lift you over. Big lump. Do you remember?” No one answered, I heard only the throaty call of a crow, laughing at me from a rather dilapidated and moss covered dry stane dyke.
Then I saw the tree, the tree where I wished my ashes to be scattered, the tree I have yet to show my children. From here, I’ll see over the town which is my home, which was my father’s home. From this tuft, I can watch over my children and their children, smell the air, the freshness of the country, the pines, the grass, the earth.
Still, I’m not dead yet, I’m very much alive and in good health. Let’s not get maudlin. On the contrary, let’s celebrate, a walk in the country, peace, fresh air, a view of the valley, the Pentland Hills rearing to the West, cradling so many secrets, skulls and weaponry buried under grass, moss and heather.
Aye, the Covenanters fought deep in the Pentland Hills at The Battle of Rullion Green, 1666, their blood long since soaked into the heaths and meadows, trickling into the springs, spilling down the valley, into the gorge. Their ghosts wandering among the hills, moaning with the wind, screeching with the fox, running wild with the deer, their battle imprinted in history, scrolled down for future generations.
A monument at Dreghorn Barracks, Colinton, commemorating this battle, once a source of fun for my siblings and I. “I see the weather cock,” would be sung by the first one to lay eyes on it. We always knew when to start looking, one of those landmarks which blended into the scenery, the suffering it represented, hidden to our young hearts.
As I looked over the land, thoughts of torture and death pounded through me, the greyness depressing, a dull, dingy world today, this first day of January. The trees were barren, the trunks dark, underneath the ground was black with rotted leaves, dead fern brown, dry, crisp, no richness or beauty to be seen. I trudged on my way.
Highpark as it’s known, where I was this first day of the year, was one of my favourite places in the town, unchanged, the gorse bushes creeping low against the grassy tufts, hiding rabbits. I used to run here early mornings, before work, my muscles strong, legs lean. I walked here as a teenage girl; companions from those days now gone. Where? Lost in other lands of their own. My dog too loved this place. Here she could scuffle and run, run and scuffle like a boisterous child, teasing the little floppy eared animals seen running for cover.
The sun peeped out, low, bright, but too faint for warmth. The ground was still damp, glistening now, this compost on the hard winter ground feeding the land, and in my head, I could see snowdrops appearing, buds presenting themselves on the branches as if by magic, the land is recovering its lushness, the beauty of nature all around. This may be a sad time, in a sense, dreary, bleak, as you think of all the bad things that have passed, the people whose souls have travelled heavenwards, but on this first day of the year, I can see there is hope, for a good year ahead. Acquaintances I wish you well. Loved ones, I look forward to enjoying a year of happiness with you.