Lost People.

Friday 8:54 p.m.
It was cold, clear and sunny as I stood on the bridge across the railway line in Bellshill train station. You could see quite some way, but as Scottish views go, there really wasn't much to see. The church steeple at the cross, a few wee hills on the horizon, and one wind farm far away.

During one of the last conversations I had with my deid brother, he showed me a letter he'd received from Kenya. It was from a daughter he never knew he had. There was photo of her and her two wee boys, both of whom looked gorgeous, like young versions of Sugar Ray Leonard. There was no address and no signature. This daughter had traced him through army records. It seems he'd stayed with her mother for a week. All the deid brother said he could remember of the woman was her greetin and holding onto him as he was trying to go back to the Scots Guards. A soldier on leave, I suppose.

His daughter had managed to come to Britain and got to Bellshill station, but only took a look around and then went back to Africa. She must have stood on the bridge. I wonder what she made of the view.

When the brother died from injuries he received falling out of the loft, I contacted some Kenyan newspapers to try to find my African relatives, but with no result. I'll have to try that again someday.

Obama isn't black. He's black and white.

I managed to stand on my head tonight and go into a lotus, then curl down and land in a sitting position. It's a long while since I was able to do that. I'm back, Jack! I'm back!