Musing Haggis

Humpty Dumpty

Humpty Dumpty had big plans to find true happiness before he fell.

            Yet, too often in life, life is sacrificed for the future life; and the future life is sacrificed for the future life. There never is the great day of perpetual pleysure.

            The wishful thinking, the rose-tinted spectacles are spectacularly unrealistic.

            For we hae here nae lasting city.

            I hath laboured all the nighty lang, Lairdy, ah say wi Peter tae Christ – and what hath I?

            Nought, but an anxious mind, an irritability, a latent frustration at the void of promised beatitude.

            Gies a break, son, Ye say quite rightly.

            There’s nae way ye’re tae brawny or bright, tae ken ma ways.

            Tell me, son, ah heard ye say. Why don’t ye run alang noo an pley, whilst ah handle the big grand plan.

            For livin, son, He tells me maist quietly, maist gently. Ye’re livin is macking me bread – and nae conquering some wacky pleysure in some distant cosmos.

            Go tae Mars if ye wish. Find some roses there, pretty ones. Still ye’ll hae nae peace. E’en if ye had awl that space, frae Rome tae the capital o’ Mars named Bars, ye’d still scarcely rest o’er that pint in Bars.

            Ah sey ye there, awl feet up on the beach o’ Bars – inside some metallic hut nae doubt, an artificial game. Ye’re quite settled, eh, all that weird bahooney o’ a city. But still, ye’re miserable. The wyrm gnaws awa’ at yer insides.

            He’ll nae lea’ ye alane, that wee wyrm. He’ll bite an chew an tear ye’re hairt, till BAM! ye snap an humpty dumpty hath his fall.

            Ne’er hath the children o’ Eva’s murky eyes seyn such darkness in her bright satanic vision, as when humpty dumpty fell. He fell frae a wee height, some say. But it wis’nae the height sae much as the lack o’ fight, which macked him fall an ne’er pick himself up. Or so the lore says.

            He was a fighter they say, until he sat on that wall. He once wis a knight, till auld Arthur died. Then they macked him King, Humpty Dumpty in his prime. He tacked the croon, sat upon the city’s walls, the city o Albana in the lore o’ Kairos moderns call Camelot.

            Then he fell. He would’nae fight nae more. He sat on that wall and he lounged lazily by the fire o’ the starry sun, as David afore he seyn Bathsheba. He would’nae play nae mair wi the sword. He grew warm. Not in the hairt, the spirit by prayer. Nay, hot in the flesh midst prayerlessness.

            That hard-boiled virtue grew soft, till he got back-pain.

            The spineless humpty awoke frae his sleepy beddy like David up tae the parapet, tae sey his Kingdom. Then he espied Bathsheba and fell. And oh how he fell. Lang he fell, they say. Nae sae much the height, but mair the unwillingness tae let go o’ Bathsheba.

            Awl that bit’s o’ cracked eggshell an yoke – the soil stained wi golden goo. Oh how I’d gie tae see that mess.

            O Humpty, o how ye fell! It wis raining, it wis pouring, the common lore sayeth, the auld lad wis snoring. He wet the bed, he bumped his head an could’nae get up in the morn.

            Auld man allright. He wis an old, old man.

            Aye the storm o’ Galilee’s loch. Yer spiritual hoose wis built on sand, an so ye slipped frae yer animal croft, a civilisation o’ material goods.

            Am trewly sorry for ye Humpty, as I am for maself. It’s a hard knox life, this fall frae grace. Awl that despair, maistly the terror o’ daggered pride. O am nae that haly, noble lad ah thought I wis. I wis God’s chosen vessel an noo I’m Satan’s.

            So here we are. Where do we go frae here? A tough road o’ repentance ahead. Where shall we go? How shall we be saved?

            What good are awl the king’s horses an men, apart frae the God’s saving power an our Jacobic wrestling. Nah, trust not in chariots an princes, but in the name o’ God.

            Aye, let’s sing tae the Laird like Israel. Not ma voice mind ye. Ah dinny sing. Ah crabbitly croak wi David amidst the tears o’ inward tormenting feeling: Miserere mei Deus.

            Ah found nae happiness in the kingdom Ye gie me. Nah, not in the land flowing wi mylk an honey. For ma delight is in the law o’ the Laird ma Gude. That is my only trew happiness.

            Chasten awl ma powers, Laird. Mack me luve pleysure rationally. Enlighten ma eye tae ken yer law, aye. But mair so mack me keep it.

            The law o’ the Lord is hard an narrow. Awl those ethical precepts. Then the prudence tae keep it in ma niche body an tale. Augustine’s city o’ Gude, eh? Peace is tranquillity o’ order. An order is God’s rational laws.

            If ah keep ma law, will ah hae peace today? Whether am a beggar or a prince?

            Well, that’s debatable. Hard tae be happy wi the flu or in an argument with ma wifey. I dinny reckon Ye had a good day out as they beat an crucified Ye.

            But ah wis day Humpty an David an I on Mars Bars wid be quite peaceful if played the game o’ ethics an prudence.

            The best bet for peace is Gude’s law. Force majeure’s or the devil’s envy, though, they may kill me. But above awl, am ma worst tormentor.

            Sae let we beggars think o’ roses abroad, greener grass o’er the fence, in oor kingly neighbour’s garden. But let’s nae put awl oor eggs in the basket o’ mair pleysure.

            Today’s the day o’ salvation. Trewth an prudence are good, but they won’t save us. The stick tae keep us upright is the Laird oor Gude.

            But that stick, wit is this wrestling wi Gude. Wherein we let Him move an then We move?

            Ah don’t quite ken. Thus trewth’s oor game, tae tell the spirits.

            Hath ye seyn spirits? An angel o’ one shoulder, a devil lurking opposite?

            I’ve seyn some human demons. Mad folk they say. Nae least maself.

            There’s demons awl aboot. Angels too. The speculative order tells me much. Prudential too.

            Ah wish tae fish like this. Tae pra’ an muse an write frae the hairt awl day. Ma sword ma quill. A game o’ wurds tae mack ma livin. Fiction, musings, wurd-pley. Some reading as I wish. A bit o’ football. A bit o’ good cheer wi a beer. The odd walk wi a pal, mair so wi music. Bit o’ art an comedy!

            A spousal cuddle, a bit o’ pley wi the bairns.

            Beyond, though, wit’s there tae do? Not much they say. Better keep ma baptismal wurd and wield ma sword.

            Who are ye? Who are we? We r family. Come sit wi me and let’s be free. If we fall, luke up like Saul.

            So, wit comes first, hen or egg? We are beggars afore Omnibenevolence. Yet, we must open wide oor big mooths an diabolic eyes, eyes larger than oor bellies.

            God’s luve, or Adam’s lazy finger?

            Who knows.

            Well, poor humpty’s maither wis Arthur’s hen Guinnevere. Or wis she Lancelot’s and so humpty o’ adulteress craze? O Guinnevere, who hen-pecker o’ Arthur, at least some say.

            But if ye ask me trewly, ah wid say … that nonsense quandary’s moot; the game’s within the shell.  

            And good humpty-dumpty, well, that egghead hath awl wisdom like his faither satan. But when he cracked o’er hell’s hot-pot, he wis fine food for thought.