Young@Heart sing "Fix You" by Coldplay

chanced upon this clip while browsing.

"This is from a documentary shown on Channel 4 in the UK called 'Young@Heart'; the name of the New England octogenarian chorus line. The performer here is Fred Knittle, who suffers from congestive heart failure. This song was intended to be a duet between Fred and another chorus member, Bob Salvini. Sadly, Bob died of a heart attack and it was left to Fred to carry the song on his own. If I'm correct, the people you see crying at 01:13 are Bob's family. The lady you occasionally see mouthing the lyrics in the audience is Fred's wife.

There were some very touching scenes where we see Fred rehearsing alone soon after Bob's death. It was an incredible film."




yeah, those irregular clicks that sound like puffs of air? thats Fred's respirator.

honesty

the underground tunnel was bustling. it was the weekend after all.

he'd been working the same shift for a while now but for all the hours he had put in, he still found it hard to tune out the noise and the crowd.

it took him a while, more than most, to concentrate. to stay focused on the job at hand. but he tells himself that his was an important job, and that important jobs had to be be done, and be done well.

"concentrate."

it is an unfortunate truth that he wasn't a very intelligent person. and it didn't help that he was born to a poor family who couldn't afford his special needs tuition. so it came to pass that he scavenged through life the best way he knew how - with eyes up, a lowered head, and a half-confused smile. what roadblocks did he face? what walls did he climb? what words did he endure? what prejudiced looks had pierced him before?

as he homed in on the loose piece of scrap that lay on the floor, trampled upon by the thousands that passed by unaware, with his chin tucked in and his mouth slightly agape and his lower lip hanging loose, his right hand gripped the broom a little tighter and his left maneuvered the dustpan into the ready.

"concentrate."

it was an honor for him to have this job. most people he had met in life wouldn't give him a second thought or hung around long enough to meet his gaze, and so he considered himself a most fortunate soul to be donning a uniform and entrusted with this, arguably the most important job in the world. it was with this single-minded happiness that he begins his days, and it was this quiet joy that made his life meaningful.

but even now as he waits patiently for the crowds to offer him an opening to approach that vile and treacherous sliver of compost that sullied his otherwise pristine ground, he is ever aware of his place. still very much the outcast. still very much overlooked. he must remember to stay in the background. he must not come into view. he must not get in the way.

"concentrate."

despite his pride, his uniform was dirty and unpressed. he had not been taught how to clean his clothes. he also walked with an unnatural limp. a previous injury, perhaps? or simply a case of poor psycho-motor skills? still, it was beside the point. although it does hamper his speed, it made little difference to the core of which he had been entrusted.

he shuffled forward now. little by little until the offending trash was in his sights. where he stood now cut an eddy into the wave of human traffic. the eye of the storm. gently he lay down the dustpan with his left and in a ballet of motion, flicked deftly with his right. indeed, God himself could not have wafted paper so.

such fluidity, such beauty is rarely seen in one's lifetime. but here is a man who himself just accomplished it. and with his eyes up, his head lowered, and with a half-confused smile, he sought another chance to do it again.

"concentrate."

------------------

i find myself very intrigued and inspired by honest, determined people.

viva la revolución

the revolution was quelled.

protestors and picketers were dispersed by smoke bombs and water cannons not an hour ago. now the street is littered with the broken glass of Molotov cocktails, charred remains of cars overturned in the chaos and the broken dreams embodied in the wood, cardboard and plastic of ruined picket signs and paper banners. it started peacefully, as they all did, but the combination of sheer heat, short fuses and angry men already on the brink of despair had this confrontation written in the books the moment the first voice was blared over megaphones.

but still he knelt there. in the centre of a quiet hope. he had not slept, nor shaved nor eaten. and his face was riddled with blood and spit. the sign he had so vehemently carried over his head these past 5 days now lay precariously over his drooping shoulder, his tattered clothes and broken soul. his jaw was slack and he stared at the ground, hands between his knees, too tired to stand. his hands were dirty and rough and his nails had been chipped, his thick fingers reduced to an exhausted curl, caked in dirt and gun smoke.

a bead of sweat fell from his nose as he breathed in deep, his sunken cheeks dark under the mid-day sun.

"why don't you go home?" i heard myself ask him.

and it was then i saw it in his eyes:


"because i have nothing else."


and so i watched him kneel there, even as the last truck pulled away bursting with his brothers in arms locked inside, he moved to grip his picket with calloused fingers. he screamed but no sound came out. his muscles ripped but no strength came forth. his veins burst but no one could see.

such pain he endured.

and yet, it seemed that fate was beyond him, and she laughed as every step he took, brought him further and further away from his goal.

"i want to walk"

said the old man.

he was almost 80, bow-legged, hunched over and ridden with arthritis. his hair was thin and cropped short. but it was surprisingly firm and stood up almost straight, and you could see the blemishes that slowly invaded the skin of people his age on his scalp through it. he had lost his last tooth back in 1998, having just turned 75, and now sometimes still finds it difficult to adjust to this, one of many, notable change in his anatomy. not that it mattered much. porridge and oatmeal doesn't often require chewing. if only his jaw didn't slack when he wasn't paying attention and, compounded with his toothlessness, didn't make him look surprised all the time.

his skin was bronzed and weathered. his hands seemed gritty and rough and only so because it had been a long time since he had let go of his walking cane, or raised his arms and turned his palms out like he used to when he was standing along the sidewalk, and because no one had shook his hands for as far back as he could remember. indeed, his hands had worked hard; but now they barely do enough to help him stand up from sitting down. and his fingers. they were long and thick and evidenced a hard life and it was almost unbecoming, almost sinful, that they've degenerated the way they have and called attention to their weary selves whenever he needed to muster any kind of strength.

his eyes were sad, albeit surprised, and would flash rare glimpses of lucidity if only you had took the time to carefully study them for a half a day or so. it wouldn't have been difficult, he didn't often go anywhere.

but now they looked tired and worried. the corners of his eyes were turned down as his slacked jaw began to, slowly but surely, pull his entire face down along with it. it was quite a feat, to stand. his feet had to be planted firmly on the ground which shouldn't be too smooth or he might slip and fall, not to rough or it might cut up his pointlessly calloused sole and, for obvious reasons, consistently well-leveled. it was an ergonomic ballet. he had to lean far forward enough, and push up with his sabulous hands enough, and power through with his ginger legs enough, that gravity would throw him over into a standing position, but not so far that it would throw him over into a broken hip.

he was, however, determined.

"i want to walk."

"we're in the middle of the street! please, just sit down."

it took two people to help him stand. and he could walk no more than 10 feet or so before those with him got impatient and encouraged him to sit back down in his wheelchair. but he did walk. his weathered sandals scraped against the floor as he gambled each spindly leg to carry the weight of his body as he laboured one foot, centimeters, in front of the other. to the untrained eye it was a shuffle, but in the heart and mind and soul of an aged man it was a sprint. it was all his wishes come true.

and as he did so, the world skipped, cantered, hopped, jogged, ran, marched, jumped, strolled, sauntered, pranced, trotted and ambled by around him.