Falkirk High Street, Thursday, 16th May, 12.10 p.m. Old woman at the
fountain across from the steeple, tall, frail, immortal, looks 80s, long thin
maroon jumper, off-cream monochrome print dress, grey hair unkempt, windblown,
unheeded, all youthful personal vanity thoughts long since gone. Playing a fiddle, probable bum notes, tune insecurity. But persevering, uncaring,
instrument tucked under through-it-all chin. Playing slow waltzes maybe,
low-motion Highland jigs and reels, wee lassie songs from her past, imperfectly
perfectly rendered, nodding in appreciation of the odd coin and praise sent her
way. One of the town elderly during a weekday, and old men and women swim
through the town centre to her beautiful gone-girlhood anthems, tuned into her
degenerating frequency, time lapse decay, X-rays of impotent timebound fury, no
escaping the fractured vibrant winding-down music box of ever-fewer tomorrows.
Then stop, acknowledge the arthritis-soothing sun’s rays, pack fiddle into
case, pick up purse and earnings, and off into the middle of expectant nowhere
forever.
12.17 p.m.
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