Great tiredness

I spent the day offering my services all over the place, looking for any kind of job – I’m knackered. The people are poor, the purse-strings are tight, and they are using me more for solidarity than for actual need, more often that not. Mum’s pension is enough, but I don’t want to completely depend on her – I am, after all, nearly 26. I didn’t work while I was in Kilmartin and I used up the few pounds I had left in Edinburgh’s shops… I have to meet Connie in the pub tonight. I know that she’ll get me the few beers I’ll have, but i don’t like being in debt to other folk.I opened the window in my room, and the garden exhaled the scent of mature narcissus. I took in the air in great, deep breaths, fresh and invigorating. I felt like I was drinking from the holy chalice of spring. I can still feel it buzzing in my head – it’s delicious.

Spiritual inhalation

I spoke to Harry quite a lot when we met last night. He told me to look after myself, not to go down the wrong path, or at the very least, not to get lost. Since Alasdair died I have become aware my exile from this world, and have once again felt a strange call, like from another land, a type of invisible no-man’s-land that, nevertheless, is part of me. I know that there is where the shadow will clear, and what remains of Alasdair in me, what I will discover about him over and above physical death, will change, and will change me. Those words that I read so long ago, that are still engraved in my mind: ”Come and make my soul a hostage to your love, so that my faith will become perfect”.

The peony, again…

My distance over the past few days hasn’t done “my” peony much harm: a few more buds have appeared, and look full of life. My face must really give away my wonder: Mrs. Pyke looks at me strangely, like she’s thinking “she’s a bit special, that one…”. Ach well, it doesn’t matter – I’m used to being seen as an outsider, and the buds that I’m looking at are spilling over some old roses, seemingly swollen with happiness. My waves of encouragement are working their magic. I’m waiting for the next smile from the petals.

Grey Monday

In Kilmartin I walked for whole days, no matter what the weather was like, moved by an intimate and powerless anger that gradually eased, changing into a beneficial energy. I went back to the place of my childhood, and found my familiar ghosts. Closing my eyes I heard my mum’s clear blethering, her young woman’s voice echoing that of my father, who was still alive at the time. They were talking in Gaelic, thinking that I didn’t understand. They weren’t totally wrong: I could pick up on the subject no bother, but the gist of their conversations was totally meaningless to me. It wasn’t until later that I understood. Through an intimate initiation, a slow introspection that still makes me evolve. My memory was lit up by a new light.

The return

I’ve just come back, I’ve reconnected, in the proper as well as the figurative sense. I couldn’t write my blog at Kilmartin, and didn’t really want to. I walked through the land, and found the dark stones that sheltered my games as a bairn. After a few hours there I decided to go to Edinburgh. I couldn’t go back to T. straight away. I needed a transition. A breath of the unhealthy, teeming city, with its familiar areas and timeless inhabitants : the square of immutable madness that endlessly recites its prayers for humanity, the esoteristic library in the neighbourhood we lived in, Alasdair and me.

Kilmartin

Harry advised me to go there, to Kilmartin, the place where I was born. The place where I spent my childhood. He said it would do me good. He’s probably right. I need to give myself a new spirit but, despite it all, I’m scared. I’m afraid that, there too, the spring of my spirit will run dry.

The peony (continuation)

I went back to the Pykes’ to have a look at the peony I transplanted last week. I inspected it with all the attention that Mrs. Pyke would allow me, given that she was talking in indignation about bombscares and other threats. Since yesterday the news was buzzing: the story of that plane travelling between France and Ireland that had to touch down in Scotland. It had landed at Prestwick, one of Glasgow’s airports, after a questionable message found on one of the seats referring to a bomb that was never found… I already knew what had happened, so was only half listening. The news hardly concerns me any more. For my part I’ve already experienced symbolic bombings, that have disconnected me from certain realities.It’s probably too early to say yet, but the buds show no sign of stopping growing. Mrs. Pyke is very attached to this plant. As for me, I put so much energy into it, working in minute detail to preserve every root to its very end, that a strange bond has developed between us, from plant life to human life.I often think about it. This morning the emotion flowed through my veins as I caressed the reddish branches. I’m waiting its flowering, seeing it as a happy omen.

I leave for Kilmartin tomorrow.

The scent of jasmine

Mum has been reading the same stuff for years. Ibn Arabi and his "Parfum du Jasmin des Fidèles d'Amour". Harry says that this is one of the elements that allows him to follow the path that will lead him to the East. I also try to follow this path. I know that each journey is unique, marked by the intimate seal of the individual who defines its subtle path. I know all that, but I still miss Alasdair, just like I miss my father… My body hurts, inhabited by nothing but absences. Mum does what she can to protect me…she really knows how to feel things. But she knows, as do I, that its through all this that I will find the path that will lead me to the light.

God is an electron

In the pub tonight there was a weird conversation. Close by me was a bonny wee woman with a red hat that firmly placed on her head, who stated with utter conviction and pride that she had managed to discover the true identity of God. Maggie. She often nips in on Saturdays, always in her red hat, from the first days of autumn until the end of winter. She stood up as tall as her slight stature would allow and proclaimed that God was an electron, invisible and everywhere at the one time, in eternal motion at the heart of every thing and every being. Maggie had attended a conference on quantum theory, and all she had retained was that fuckin´wee electron with its evasive evidence.‘That’s it, God is exactly that ! He’s everywhere at once, even in the pebbles…think of it like that: a pebble ! Something that doesn’t even move…aye, that’s right, that sums it up…and without an electron that wouldn’t exist…nothing would exist…so that’s the proof, eh ? The proof that God is that wee thing…aye…’Everybody was laughing around her, and the person next to me offered another drink. As for me, I found it great, as well as emotional. I gave her a hug while leaving; she was a bit shocked, as I’m not really that type of person. “From the electron…” I whispered in her ear. She smiled back at me, like she understood.I went out and walked along the templar graveyard before going home. I picked up a stone, a little pebble full of life.

Thursday

Writing here, almost every day…A commitment? A stupid bet? A sort of guide? In any case, it makes me realise what I am, and ensures I don’t stay here motionless. I feel something taking shape in me, and this something comes from Alasdair, the source, vector and object all at the same time. Writing every day, moving slowly along, growing as a person, as my peony flowers day after day. Until birth? Harry has got me to look after the garden, and the flower in the photo is like the witness of a fruit that has matured in the light of my work. I have to feel love for it, and place my total trust in it as it guides me, its sublime innocence bringing me back to the universe to which I belong. Inside, outside…

The Peony

Today I went to the Pykes’ for a wee bit of gardening work. We’re not strapped for cash – far from it – but this extra work has allowed me to contribute my fair share since my return from Edinburgh. The folk trust me and are calling me more often for this kind of work. Of course, I don’t chop down trees in a big lumberjack shirt, but I’m strong enough to dig and hoe…Mrs. Pyke wants me to move a bed of arborescent peonies, as they’re having some work done. I have to move it to the other side of the house, over where’s there’s protection. It’s a delicate job, as the first buds have already appeared, and it’s an old plant, with long, deep roots.I reckon it’ll take me at least two days.

Birthday

Today, the 4th of April, is Paul’s birthday. Paul is my godson, the son of my best friend Florence. We’ve known each other for a long time, and we sing together in the T. choir. That’s actually where we met each other, when we were bairns all those years ago. We must only have been about 10 or so… I called her Florence Nightingale… she was a fluid, lively soprano, and had incredible control over her voice for one so young. It’s a real pro voice, and she practices every day. She’s the star of the choir, but always blushes when anyone pays her a compliment, drawing back into the choir the minute she finishes a solo, her eyes looking at the floor and her cheeks red, like a true debutante. I love her like I would love a sister (I’m an only child). For his 4th birthday I gave Paul a great remote-control car. His blue eyes shone with excitement – he was over the moon. His happiness warmed me to the heart.