Try Praying? Try Doing!

 

Whether April is the cruellest month is neither here nor there; it is the weirdest month when it comes to the weather. There’s something wrong about snow after Easter, but even after the Beast from the East had done its worst, winter was slow to release its grip. Every type of precipitation, from snow to hail to misty rain to ready-made slush to drizzle and dreich continued to drench our streets and blot out Arthur’s Seat. And then, within weeks, the hottest day in April for some seventy years was recently reported – if we can believe the news – albeit, some miles further south.

 

For some reason, I’m reminded of lines from The Persians by Aeschulus: “When waves of fortune break on us, we think to enjoy the same fair weather all our lives.” This is from the speech of Queen Atossa who has to confront her Court with knowledge of the reality of Xerxes’ failed war-mission. I could bang on about the usual stuff to do with the recent strikes on Syria, which seem to be another sinister sidling up to America by our sycophantic Government, but I want to talk about issues closer to home.

 

Here in Edinburgh, where April showers are anathema, we have a tricky compact between the haves and have-nots, insofar as we know that both exist, but we comfortably live together without the one needing to acknowledge the other. This is a rather perverse reading of Matthew who reports Christ’s assertion that the left hand shouldn’t know the actions of the right. These days, this concept is (wrongly) interpreted as an example of organisational ineptitude, rather than charitable deeds performed without calling attention to themselves.

 

Sometimes, however, the Church needs to make its deeds and intentions known. So when our funny wee country was blasted with blizzards, a church I am familiar with posted this advert on its railings, near where the famous and sometimes controversial mural is displayed, I must say I felt proud of my former association. Until, that is, I remembered I had seen another banner in the same vicinity that made me – frankly – angry. It was that pathetic advert/plea that says, “TRY PRAYING.”

 

This sort of campaign so often comes out of the evangelical wing of Christianity, and tends to solicit a simple, if crude, response from me: FUCK OFF! The idea that ‘praying works’ is nonsense if there is no premise of what it is that praying ‘does.’ Why not start with ‘try doing’ and then, if that gets results, change ‘praying’ to ‘being?’ And having done that, one can pray... but pray only that more can be DONE to help people to BE.

 

I’m in the comfortable position of being able to comment on Christianity and religion from outwith the restrictive confines of The Church, since I no longer subscribe to the latter, and can therefore hold lightly to the former. So when, at an Edinburgh dive bar where I hold the spurious post of Resident Poet, we held an event, titled Easter Hymn Service for Pagans and Sodomites, in the spirit of this freedom, I performed a set in the style of a sarcastic liturgy beginning with...

 

Opening Sentence:

 

Jesus Christ was raised from the dead

having died for your sins, you fuckers.

Oh, hold on? It was just an April Fool

 – get back to your sinning, suckers!

 

 

After that rather irreverent start, I invited the audience/congregation to join me in thoughts and prayers, and recited this poem, written shortly after a bunch of American school kids were gunned down.

 

Thoughts and Prayers

 

The banners on the buses

and outside certain churches said, ‘Try Praying.’

It was almost as passive aggressive as #justsaying...

and – if I may say so – a touch condescending.

As if prayer will cure all the ills of the world!

As if praying will make a damn difference!

As if praying brings instant happiness, ending

the suffering of our existence!

As if people hadn’t been ‘trying’ for years:

It’s a natural part of the human condition

to cry out for help or offer petition or praise

to a God who we think has the power

to appraise our position and intercede

according to our intercession.

As if our pious thoughts and prayers

Could quash the aggressors, suppress the oppressors,

silence the bullies, or muffle the guns;

As if prayer could help children sleep tight in their bed,

As if mere thought could bring back the dead.

Of course we all know that it can’t.

And as Byron once said, these days the cant

Is as strong as the cunt – by which he meant

the language of hypocrisy is as offensive to some

who consider a perfectly beautiful word to be strong.

Sadly the pen seems no stronger than the gun.

Isn’t it strange that a nation

obsessed with its own (and only its)

quest for a personal salvation seems hell-bent –

while sending its prayers up to heaven –

on preserving its supposedly well-meant

constitution allowing every adult citizen

to bear arms as he offers to God his holy orison.

 

Well, I’m not so much against religion,

or a person’s right to profess a belief,

and while I don’t engage with ‘prayer’ as such,

I’m sure it brings to some people much relief,

just as quietness and gentle meditation

bring to others inner peace and contemplation.

And Christianity gives a story of a man who, they say

was crucified next to a common thief,

and instructed us exactly how to pray

(I won’t spell it out – you probably know it anyway.)

He also told his disciple to put away his sword

(which nowadays = gun, it’s just a different word).

And who lived out an Old Testament prophecy

which sadly every World Leader has failed to see,

that “nation shall not lift up a sword against nation,

neither shall they learn war anymore.” That was Micah

the prophet, and whether you like a

quote from scriptures, or prefer to try praying,

or live by other strictures, this (just saying)

is what the ancient Micah prophesied:

“They shall turn their swords into ploughs,

and melt down their guns into forks.”

So try praying, but only if it allows

you to turn thought into action that talks.

 

 

 

In true Presbyterian style, I paused briefly for the notices, in which I pointed out the exhibition on display in the side aisle (ie, stage right of the mosh pit,) a photographic display titled Walking on The Water (ie, my photographs) and also, announced that this week’s evening Discussion Groups were on the personality system known as the enneagram, in which people could discover whether they belonged to the Head, or Heart, or Gut-led triad of personal typology. Then we had the reading.

 

You’ve got a Friend

 

I have a friend called Jesus,

they say he walks on water;

he’s the Son of God, although if he was female

they’d surely call him God’s Daughter.

 

I think he’s a fan of the Beegees

(I’m not saying he likes a good jive)

Because whether you a lover or whether you’re another,

follow him: you’ll be staying alive!

 

Not that I believe in Life After Death

For we all face that final curtain,

and whether there’s heaven or whether there’s hell,

I really can’t be certain.

 

But being a friend of Jesus

doesn’t offer any certainty;

loving your neighbour as you love yourself:

that’s the point of Christianity.

 

Not everyone likes religion these days,

and some find it terribly hard –

when Jesus says you should love your enemies,

where exactly is the reward?

 

Well it’s not in Heaven, nor in Hell,

For God’s Kingdom is here on earth.

If you want to live in peaceful harmony

you should LOVE for all it’s worth.

 

II

 

I have a friend called Dorothy,

She says there’s no place like home,

and no matter how far you are over the rainbow,

with her, you’re never alone.

 

My companion is the Straw Man,

For sure, man, he’s camp as tits;

when he tries to walk on his wobbly legs,

he ends up in pieces and bits.

 

And here is a man – well, in fact he’s lion –

who ROARS, though, in fact, he’s a coward.

If he’s gonna rescue Dorothy from that burning house

He’ll have to be slightly less-froward.

 

And me, I’m just a man made of tin,

but my joints have been rusted for years.

I long for a heart and a wee squeak of oil

and a tissue to dry up my tears.

 

So Dorothy encourages all her friends

to walk in a clockwise direction,

through thinking or feeling or doing, a circular

journey will help you to make a connection.

 

Yes, we’re all friends of Dorothy; some

in mind, some in heart; others, physique.

Wherever you’re over or under the rainbow,

it’s okay: you’re still unique.

 

III

 

I’ve got an imaginary friend –

you might not have heard of her –

but you may want to be acquainted some day:

her name is Angela.

 

For if, on a hot date in our venue

procured through Tinder or Grindr,

things aren’t going quite as they ought to,

that’s when you need to find her.

 

Is this the first time you’ve met them,

and things seem wrong from the start?

Has your ‘hot date’ created a strange sensation

in your gut or your head or your heart?

 

Perhaps their dating profile

doesn’t match their personality;

does it feel a bit weird; do you feel unsafe,

are you heading for a calamity?

 

If you go to the bar, or ask at the door,

to mention your situation

just ask for ‘Angela’ – you won’t need to give

any further explanation.

 

The staff will help immediately,

using their utmost discretion,

to remove you from danger before it turns into

an act of potential aggression.

 

CODA

 

So if you’re a friend of Jesus

it doesn’t have to be hard labour –

if you want to live life to the full before death,

just LOVE your fellow neighbour.

 

And if you’re a friend of Dorothy,

whether in heart, mind, or gut;

do the clockwise walk, you’ll get back home

and the door will never be shut.

 

But if you’re a friend of Angela

(don’t worry – she doesn’t exist)

Just go to the bar and ask for her,

we’ll help you get out of a twist.

 

 

Following this, I admitted that sometimes my poetry could be a bit preachy, but since this was a Service (albeit for Pagans and Sodomites) it was time for the sermon.

 

The thing about schemes such as Ask for Angela is that some people feel that it encourages a culture of victim-blaming. Well, this may be so, but the way I see it is, while women feel the need to protect themselves by wearing lockable knickers, or inserting barbed condoms, or using nail-varnish that changes colour if they dip their finger into a spiked drink, then we should be doing ALL we can to help and stand by those who are vulnerable, at risk, or in trouble.

 

That’s why we, in our little bar, endorse the Ask for Angela scheme. The same goes for Churches opening their buildings for the homeless: they shouldn’t have to, but until there is adequate social care and justice, it is our duty as citizens – or Christians, if you subscribe to that system – to love our neighbour, and do our best for all people, whoever they are. Here ends the lesson. Now a hymn.

 

At this point, I sang a poem, inserted into a copy of Hymns Ancient and Modern, to the tune of the hymn, There is a Green Hill far away. (The tune, ‘Horsley,’ is an in-joke known only to me)

 

The service was concluded with a totally irreverent flourish, “In the name of the father mother, son daughter, and holy friendly ghost – Amen?” Some people might find this stuff offensive, but I don’t care. I find the abject hypocrisy of church and state offensive. If there is something I have taken with me in my turning away from the Church, it is that I still believe in the main tenet of Christianity.

Love.

Unconditional love.

So Many Monsters?

This year I have decided to go to the cinema more often. My attendance had severely dipped over the past few years, so I figured if I had the discipline of writing reviews for a website, and took advantage of some of the ‘offers’ at my chosen cinema (Edinburgh’s fabulous Filmhouse) I would build up my film-count. So far I’ve been to eight screenings, and seen thirteen films.

 

If that sounds exaggerated, it’s because one screening was a selection of short films, under the title Written on the Body. This was a tricky review to write because it was far-from main-stream cinema. The films were curated as part of Scotland’s LGBT History month, and the selection was intended to challenge perceptions.

 

Possibly the best moment came before the films began, when an advert for a fabric softener pedalling the usual heteronormative bullshit – ‘beautiful’ woman gets to kiss ‘dishy’ bloke just because her clothes smell nice – solicited a loud “Booo” followed by audience laughter.

 

I’m a strong believer in the ‘theatrical’ element of cinema (thankfully, Filmhouse has a no popcorn policy) because the audience-reaction makes the film an experience.  Two films in particular made uncomfortable viewing with their focus on the mistreatment of children, and rattled skeletons for me too.

 

Loveless was a bleak picture of a child caught in the crossfire of warring parents, and reminded me of a friend who was in a similar position some years ago. The difference being that he and his daughter’s mother both wanted the best out of love for their child, whereas the parents in Loveless lived up to the film’s title.

 

Contrasting with this sparse film was the gutsy You Were Never Really Here by Lynne Ramsay. I focussed on the ‘gendered’ aspect (I wasn’t alone among film critics) rather than the plot, which I prefer not to spoil when I review a film. Likewise, I tend not to read any preview details of a film, and avoid the adverts assiduously.

 

Would I have wanted to watch this film had I known about the child prostitution aspect is hard to say. Some thirteen years ago, a project I was running with teenagers unveiled some dark and disturbing truths about children involved in the sex-trade. My fragile state of mental health at the time created turbulence that has continued to rock my world, even though I’m in a much better place now. But it sickens me to discover that the same situation of kids being trafficked for sex on the streets of Glasgow still exists. It’s as if they were never really there all those years ago.

 

On a lighter note, I moved out of my comfort-zone by reviewing something far-less depressing: Lady Bird. Coming-of-age movies aren’t usually my thing, and this one was pretty standard in terms of content, but the superb acting, script, and subtle character focus (more about the mother than the daughter) made this a strong contender for the Oscars. Sadly, it didn’t score... Hollywood has clearly got more-than feel-good on its agenda these days.

 

Before I get to the Oscars (in writing) I saw a pair of films that I didn’t review by Warwick Thornton: Samson & Delilah and Sweet Country. The former was one of the films chosen to celebrate 40 Years of Filmhouse, and the tickets were at 2010 prices. For the latter film, I took advantage of a half-price Filmhouse Explorer ticket.

 

Both films were an eye-opening portrayal of indigenous people – one contemporary, the other, historical – demonstrating how appallingly settlers treat a country’s natives. And both films were gripping, bold, and sumptuously shot.

 

The final two films in this round-up scored well at the Oscars. Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri earned Sam Rockwell best supporting actor, and Frances McDormand best actress. Her acceptance speech, ending with the words “inclusion rider” was a clarion-call to the film industry to sort out its inherent sexism and lack of inclusivity.

 

 

Likewise, when Guillermo del Toro accepted his Best Film award for The Shape of Water, pointing out that he was from Trump’s much-hated country, he made the message of the film quite clear. In some ways I found the premise a little silly: mute woman falls in love with slimy creature in a top secret government laboratory. Yes of course, it was fantasy, and the portrayal of the nasty men made it obvious who the real ‘monsters’ were – or are.

 

Yet I feel there is something deeper – you could say, below the surface – in what this film is saying. We make monsters of people at our peril. Hitler called the Jews ‘pigs’ to humiliate and de-humanise them. People whose social behaviour or situation is below par are described as ‘animal’ or ‘feral’ or worse. Around ten years ago the OED coined a new meaning for the word ‘beast’ suggesting that it is the name given in prisons to sex offenders – although I wonder if that originated in the tabloids.

 

After all, they use the expression ‘in the pen’ to describe custody, and print pictures of people who commit dreadful crimes with captions that read, ‘THE FACE OF A MONSTER.’ I’m not excusing any crimes, whether committed out of calculated evil or cognitive dissonance. The vast majority of offences are perpetrated by people whose lives or minds aren’t in a good state; calling them monsters is hardly likely to help them re-build their lives.

 

Those from whom the outside community needs permanent protection may have performed utterly unacceptable acts, but calling them ‘monsters’ only reflects on a society bent on revenge, retribution and name-calling. In The Shape of Water, Sally Hawkin’s character, Elisa, points out that by not trying to save the doomed creature, it is they who become animals.

 

The slippery slope for those who call others animals begins with a President who calls a woman’s pudenda ‘pussy’ and ends with a Dictator slaughtering those he considers lower than ‘pigs.’

 

I’ve used a double trump-card here, not only by invoking that bonehead Donald (now I’m calling names, but not in a bestialised way) but also, Godwin’s Law: to end an argument with Hitler.

 

Humans love using extremes. Perhaps it’s because it gives them a sense of proportion. Godwin’s Law is about losing that proportion; the same can be said of bestial name-calling. In the gamut of criminal offences, those defined as ‘sexual’ represent the same trumping effect. Whether a person has raped someone or simply flashed their privates in public, they will be branded like an animal, and made to 'sign' a register that will restrict their volition and - some might say - human rights.

 

The official duration of this registration will depend on the severity of the sentence. But it comes down to this: it’s easier for a murderer to re-habilitate into society having done their time than it is for a sex-offender to complete their sentence, or for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle. It’s not an easy subject to stomach, and with articles such as this one that asks what to do with the art of monstrous men, surely the first answer would be: stop calling them monsters. How else are we going to reconcile humanity with its inherent fragility?

 

Sadly the article, after too many words, fizzles out inclusively with an unsympathetic fallacy that suggests all artists have to be monsters! Haven’t we all erred and strayed like lost sheep? Maybe. And with that final animal reference, I’ll end by saying, it’s Easter. I don’t take the resurrection myth literally, but I do adhere to a simple creed, first used as a motto by Christian Aid many years ago.

 

I believe in Life before Death.

 

Amen...

 

 

A Case of You

With all this snow going on in Scotland at the moment, I am minded of a piece of my writing from many years ago. I was working at memorising Schubert's Wintereisse, and decided to have a walking holiday to assist the process. I often use walking for this purpose; sadly, the weather turned more wintry than my mood at the time. It became a rather sad and introcpective journey as I reflected on the sorry state of my life at the time.

I subsequently edited what I wrote, and published it on the Scottish Book Trust competition pages requsting writing on 'Journeys' in an attempt to pass it off as a piece of fiction. But the fact of the matter is that it is in fact a true story. Furthermore, that haunting song-cycle by Schubert is still a part of my life. I may perform some of these sad songs very soon... But first, the sadder story.


When my life collapsed some years ago, I took myself to Western Scotland in search of somewhere in the middle of nowhere to think, write, cry, or walk for miles. I was running away without a plan or a clue about where I would end up.

This failing struck me as I sat stuck on a train on the single-track route to Oban. My mood swung between maintaining my snivelling cold as the reason for my constant nose-blowing and letting my tears make pools in my glasses. I was heading towards the Gateway to the Islands of Mull, Iona, Colonsay, with no ambition to explore them. Just to survive the trip alone.
 

Yet the journey was sadder still – because I had no-one to share it.

As we set out, in my carriage a couple across from me busily chatted. Behind, two creepy-looking guys were joined by a pair of loud girls; elsewhere two lads were noisily japing around. A girl with chip-pan-crinkly hair and her freckly companion were patiently trying to ignore them.

Of the few lone travellers was an attractive woman with deep brown eyes who I’d seen on the platform at Queen Street. She might have cheered my spirits a little with her ephemeral beauty, though my longing to share the experience with someone was compromised by my emotional state.  

Instead, I stared through the window. The scenery was overwhelming.

A stag bounded across the railway line at the train’s horn, disappearing into the glen. I saw through my tear-smeared spectacles snow-laden Christmas-card trees, frosted bracken, heathery mist across the half-frozen lochs. Colours one assumed were only possible through a lens-filter for the purposes of Scottish calendars and table-mats; purples, lush greens and paprikas, soft granite and water-colour blue through the icing-sugar snow; mist filtering the ice-white winter sun.

Every hue matched the intensity of my loneliness as I thought of what to write.

Our train stopped several stations short of our destination due to an engineering carriage being frozen to the rails down the line. The sunset orange was mixing with the purple granite like a bruise, and the chill entered the train when smokers periodically went out onto the frosted platform. A taxi came for those catching the four o’clock boat to Mull, while everyone else waited for wrong-sized mini-busses.

My sandwich was half-eaten – I couldn’t breathe through my nose and had to hold my breath while chewing. Glad that we, and not the half of the train that split to travel to Mallaig, ended up with the snack- trolley, I took advantage of free coffee and crisps. Drying my eyes, I stood up and let someone pass who flashed a beautiful smile, before I went to collect my coffee.

It was the woman I’d seen at Queen Street. I thought of my Ex’s absurd jealously and yet, her understanding of my need to feel loved, to be smiled at – or to be pitied. My fascination for people, their stories and lives, their shallows and depths, their devils and deeds. I want to be at one with them, to touch their souls: help them discover their 'organismic' selves.

Finally we were stuffed into a mini-bus, people sitting on bags, on friend’s knees; the one with the brown eyes and smile in the front with another passenger who alighted before we reached Oban. I’d nearly sat in the front seat, where I could have heard her story as she answered the taxi-driver’s anodyne chatter.

This is what I do when I can’t cope: I get into people’s lives, soaking them up like a sponge. But my heart was empty. Soon the banter and conversation of the train was reduced to a deathly silence; punctuated only by the driver’s apologetic ‘Ho-ho-ho.’

Feeling drained, I sat in a stupor, as if experiencing the journey from a distance. I was far from home, and the nearer we got to Oban, the more I realised the meaningless of my mission. I’d booked into a cheap and even-less cheerful hotel tucked in a back street behind the empty station, next to a scrubby-looking bowling club.

I ventured out into the frozen night for fish and chips and beer. As I settled into greasy nylon sheets, I wished I’d arrived in time to buy a bottle of the local Malt at the off-licence. The lack of anaesthetic and irritating tickle in my throat made sleep a vacant hope.

Such was the story of my sojourn. I didn’t make it to the countryside to scream my head off as intended. Nor did I get on a boat and visit the multi-coloured, mono-religious lands of the Western Isles. As I passed like a ghost in and out of the streets, all I could feel was the intoxicating presence of.. the person I was trying to shake off. I walked into a shop and the radio was playing Joni Mitchell.

My ears barely pricked up: the music was already in my head.

I walked up to McCaig’s Tower where the low sun left long, haunting shadows; to Pulpit Hill where nobody ever preached; then the distillery where I forwent the hour-long tour and my ‘free’ glass of Malt. That evening I sat in a spit-and-sawdust Inn on the North pier, ear-wigging on the alien-sounding West Coast accents, feeling like a foreigner.

I had to get back.

On the return journey, opposite me a jolly man who was drinking from a bottle of Casillero del Diablo tried to make conversation. Am I drawn to those who aren’t afraid? Is the only person I’m afraid of myself. Or the one who was in my blood like holy wine: I could drink a case, and still be on my feet. She was as far from me as I was from home. Whatever I had lost, I still had myself. So I thought.

My companion raised his glass of Cabernet Sauvignon from the Cellar of the Devil.

I declined his cheer, and took out my pen.

 

In Ignoble Poverty

If I were to answer the question, ‘Why haven’t I managed a monthly blog-post until the last day of January?’ the answer might be familiar to all self-employed freelancers. The dreaded Tax Return. However, after the usual procrastination, I logged into my account only to find I didn’t need to.

 

It seems that, after years of existing below the threshold, the Tax Office has finally got bored with my paltry finances. While this is a relief in many ways, since trawling through a thousand unanswerable questions was pretty tiresome, it is strange to admit that I’m officially an impoverished artist.

 

It’s also rather liberating. I live within my means, with few frivolous expenses, and I do enough ‘extra’ work to allow the odd luxury while keeping those extra hours for my creativity. Sure, it would be good to be able to earn more from my creative endeavours, but that’s not the reason that I do what I do.

 

Creativity is a compulsion. I can't imagine how I would be able to make sense of this complicated world if I wasn’t an artist. Creativity is good for one’s health, for society’s health, and for the planet. Why do we have artwork along hospital corridors?

Because art makes people better. Yet it does cost money. As Joni Mitchel says, ‘Artists in noble poverty go like virgins to the grave.’ (Meanwhile, on the same album, she was ‘stoking up the star-maker machinery behind the popular song!’)

 

For all my ‘noble poverty’ I appreciate that art is not separate from the systems that, sadly, make the world go round. When creative projects are stripped of funds – as has happened to many organisations in Scotland recently – people have to be doubly creative in order simply to finance their practice.

My good friends at the Edinburgh City of Literature Trust are in this position.
 

A Unique City
 

To have the unique status of being the first ever UNESCO-designated City of Literature is something Edinburgh should be proud of. Our main train station is named after a novel, and throughout the station there are quotes of Sir Walter Scott (thanks to the City of Lit.) At the top of The Mound is a quaint little close where Scott, along with our National Bard, Robert Burns, and Robert Louis Stevenson are celebrated in a turreted museum dedicated to them.

 On the pavement there are quotes from Scottish poets ranging over hundreds of years, and signs advertising Literary Walking Tours. But you don’t even need a tour-guide.

Amble down the Royal Mile to the Canongate and there are light-boxes installed in the windows of pubs and shops and cafés, each with a quote from a writer connected in some way to Edinburgh’s rich publishing history; an illuminated trail to inspire and light up the night during the long winter months.

These are dark days indeed, even if January has basked in two full moons, as the City of Literature Trust’s effort to light up our city’s life with a bright ring of words has been snubbed by a major funder. Outside the Canongate Kirk, a statue of Robert Fergusson attempts to stride down to the Parliament building at the bottom of the hill. His words, incised in concrete around his feet, declare:

          Auld reekie wale o ilka toun

          that scotland kens beneath the moon

 

And on the Parliament too, carved into a slab of Argyle marble, we read the words of Mary Brooksbank:

 

          Oh, dear me, the warld’s ill-divided,
          Them that work the hardest are aye wi’ least provided.

 

...which calls to mind the truth that, during the Festival Fringe, the folk who make the most money are the big businesses who benefit from the boost of creativity and culture. The artists who provide it do so at a huge personal cost.
 

Art is important, and literature tells far more than just the story of a city: it is the city. But it costs money, and the funding cuts people have suffered will leave Edinburgh impoverished in more ways than one.

Generating money for the already-wealthy is a poor show, and I can only hope that someday, somehow, someone will re-elevate the turret-dwellers to their rightful, illuminated place.

Follow the Stars and Stories here – or come to visit Edinburgh and soak up the literature that makes our city so special.