(nijverheidskaai, molenbeek)
(for mara eastern’s poetry 101 rehab – couple)
*shot with nikon d700, nikkor 70-300 mm f/4.0-5.6 lens at 300mm, 1/320s and f/9, edited in lightroom cc, aperture efex pro 2 with multi lens filter applied, poem added in photoshop cc, no couples were harmed in the making of this post*
So, here we are, four weeks later (ok so I’m late, this last post was prompted yesterday).
The last and final prompt for day twenty of Writing 101 from WordPress is
“Tell us the story of your most-prized possession”
For this final assignment we were urged
“to lead us through the history of an object that bears a special meaning to you”
And the twist?
“We extolled the virtues of brevity back on day five, but now, let’s jump to the other side of the spectrum and turn to long form writing. Let’s celebrate the drawn-out, slowly cooked, wide-shot narrative.”
So here we go.
See you on the other side, when I’m done writing.
I have an intense dislike for any question that starts with
“what’s your favourite colour / animal / number / song / food”.
Yes. So, when asked to write about my “most-prized” possession, guess what, that is if you are still with me after my four week long assault on my English language, I reacted. Badly.
Then, I thought.
I know, collective *gasp*.
I know what I will write about.
So, I will. I am.
And, it may take me a while to get to the point. And, I will, in time. I need to talk a little first.
My first thought?
I don’t think any of us ever “possess” anything.
We look after things, we rent things, we are custodians, stewards. We don’t possess a thing. Not a single thing. Not really.
Not in any sense that means a damn thing.
And even when we think we possess something. Does it bring us happiness? I mean the possession of things.
Is a billionaire happier than the man who sleeps under a bridge at night. Really. I wonder.
Reflecting, I thought about the things that I might have valued, counted, as “possessions”, if I was so inclined. And I’m not. But, hey, bear with me. My childhood is something I may write about, but the memories are not something I cherish. Far from it. I wrote here about the death of my father. Later, my mother died of a terrible cancer when she was still quite young. I have lost touch with many who are very important to me, my two daughters for example (and that’s a story for another day, another life).
Those relationships are not “possessions”, but many cling on to them as if they were.
Their very existence in some way defining us.
So, no, I don’t “possess” those things.
Not any more.
I walk alone. Often. Or so it seems.
I once had religion.
Well, I was indoctrinated, force fed, I embraced, I knelt, I prayed. And then, I lost my religion.
For good, or bad 😉
Teach a kid when he is four that God made the world in six days, then that he sat back and had a rest.
Then, later, introduce Schrödinger, quantum mechanics, the holocaust, and relativity theory.
Light blue touch paper. Retire to a safe distance.
I may sound cynical.
I assure you that I am not.
I may be free writing a little.
But, I do have a point and plan to get there.
When we are born. We come with nothing. We leave with nothing.
We will argue with each other, and ourselves, until our sun immolates itself and vaporises our little pile of dust, that we take something to the “next life”. Maybe we will or maybe we will not.
But when we do, if we do, we sure as hell (if it exists) will not be taking a single one of our “most prized” possessions with us. No, those poor Egyptian Pharaohs, those poor workers sacrificed to honour them, were wrong. Ask Howard Carter.
Memories? What of them? People we knew, once knew, now know no more. If we ever did.
Do we possess those memories. And if we do, what of it?
Not so long ago, in relative terms, I lost pretty much all I had worked to “possess”. Did it matter? At the time, I thought it did. Only the things I really possessed in any material sense didn’t matter a damn.
The things that mattered were more elusive. Deeper down.
There is only one thing that we possess. That we can possess. Any of us.
Our sense of who we are. What we are.
Maybe not why we are. But hey.
That is the only thing that we possess and we must take care of it. If we don’t we not only hurt ourself, we hurt everyone around us.
We take so much care for those around us.
And so often, neglect the one person who really relies on us.
There is a reason that airlines advise us to secure our own oxygen mask first.
(inspired by this, #am_still_learning)
“the soul, fortunately, has an interpreter - often an unconscious but still a faithful interpreter - in the eye”
― charlotte brontë, jane eyre
(eye -bar restaurant, ijpromenade 1, amsterdam)
(for wordpress weekly photo challenge – intricate)
(also for lucile’s photo101 rehab, with thanks…)
*shot with nikon d700, nikkor 50mm f/1.4 lens at 1/250s and f/8, edited in lightroom cc and silver efex pro 2, eye’s left*
intricate on belgianstreets
intricate on belgianstreets
This Friday, my Wordpress “Writing 101” experiment comes to an end. I will miss the challenge and the fun, but perhaps not the stress 😉
The brief for day eighteen, “hone your point of view”.
This time round, part of the story has been written for us.
“The neighbourhood has seen better days, but Mrs. Pauley has lived there since before anyone can remember. She raised a family of six boys, who’ve all grown up and moved away. Since Mr. Pauley died three months ago, she’d had no income. She’s fallen behind in the rent. The landlord, accompanied by the police, have come to evict Mrs. Pauley from the house she’s lived in for forty years.”
As always the brief comes in two parts.
First, the prompt:
“Write this story in first person, told by the twelve-year-old sitting on the stoop across the street.”
Oh, and yes, then, there is the twist:
“For those of you who want an extra challenge, think about more than simply writing in first-person point of view — build this twelve-year-old as a character. Reveal at least one personality quirk, for example, either through spoken dialogue or inner monologue.”
I have tried to stretch myself with this piece. So, it’s a dark one.
It’s not real.
But, imagine. If it were.
Today is a bloody great day!
It’s so annoying, the way they don’t care. None of them. They never cared. They just don’t know what it was like. It went on and on and on.
So, yes, today, I feel bloody wonderful. And, who cares what anyone else thinks. At last. It’s finally over. For ever.
None of them ever cared. What they did. Ever!!!
Not my mum, my dad, none of them would bloody listen!!
Well maybe they will now? If they find out? Hid, I hope they don’t. They promised me that great new bike. I bet they wouldn’t if they knew. If they knew. No bike then!
What I did.
What they did. The bastards. All six of them. And him. And she. She bloody knew!
Right from the start, she bloody knew. It was him. Her eldest. he started it, and they all joined in. Bit bit by bloody bit.
Mom, “oh they’re such a lovely family, those boys, so good to their Mom”.
Yeah, right. Mommy’s little soldiers. Too bloody right.
“But mom…” I would start.
And yeah, suddenly she needed to do something. Anything. And me. And it. Well, yeah we vanished. Too hard to talk about. Like usual.
And bit by beautiful bit, they left. Moved on. Hid help anyone near to them now. All six of them. Bastards all.
And he, the youngest, he was the worst.
Ha! He had five brothers to learn from. And me. For practice. And no one bloody cared. No one!
But he left as well.
And I thought it was over.
But no.
It wasn’t.
He, remained. The father. The beast behind the beasts. I mean, they had to learn from somewhere? No? And he, he was the worst.
That day. What was I supposed to do? Hey? I mean, what would you do? I didn’t mean it. Not really. I promise. But. What would you do. I really didn’t mean it. It just happened. Just like that.
Three months ago.
All that blood.
But they never found out. None of them. Good!
And her. She. I think she knew. And looked away.
So. Great. Finally she’s going. Who cares?
Not me.
Once more, I chose to explain this post before I begin, and not add one of my cryptic, and often ambiguous, notes, after the piece. This time, it is the end of the piece that may, for some, appear ambiguous. For which, I do not apologise.
This is my response to day seventeen of the Writing 101 Blogging U. course run by WordPress. The course will end on Friday.
The brief, came in two parts.
As usual, a prompt, with a twist.
Today’s prompt
“We all have anxieties, worries, and fears. What are you scared of? Address one of your worst fears.”
And, the twist?
“Write this post in a style distinct from your own.”
The man sat at the bare wooden table. In the corner. Heavily. He was exhausted. It had been a long day. Again.
For him it was always so. Each day the same.
Alone. Contemplating his surroundings. The bar was dim, dingy after the searing sun in the street. A long mirror behind the bar, an empty hatstand.
And cold. Very cold. The floor, stone, covered in dust and the remains of well chewed cigars. And other stuff. He didn’t want to think what stuff.
Turning, signalling to the bar tender, with a single raised finger.
The bar tender looked across the room. Blankly. No response. His head seeming to sweep slowly across the bar. And its solitary occupant. His reflection, in the long mirror behind the bar, completing the circle.
“Hey, what do I have to do to get served around here?”
The bar tender appeared unmoved by the request. Not a shrug. Not a raised eyebrow. Nothing. At all.
The man pushed back his chair, legs scraping through the detritus that covered the floor.
“Hey. I really. Could. Use. A. Drink. Here. Yeah?”
Nothing. The bar tender turned away. A finger rubbing his chin absently.
The couple entered the bar. He, sombre, miserable looking, black tuxedo, open white shirt, top buttons missing, unshaven. She, tight fitting little red dress, little else. Or so it seemed to the man, his attention distracted from the unresponsive bar tender.
The tuxedo and the red dress stopped, looked. Moved past his table. Saying nothing. At all.
They sat, fell, into a plump sofa pushed against the wall. So close, he could smell their heat, their lust. It disturbed him.
He looked away as the tuxedo explored the red dress. He didn’t need to see what he guessed was inevitable. Hearing their grunts and hot heavy breathing was enough. More than enough.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the tuxedo and the bar tender exchange a glance. No words. A nod. That was all.
Their drinks appeared quickly. Left on the low wooden table. It was covered in stains. He watched the ice melt in their glasses.
The man turned away. Looked directly into the bar tender’s cold grey eyes. Sought to hold his gaze for a moment. The bar tender turned away, his eyes drifting to the battered old TV set flickering, buzzing, in a corner above the bar.
Coughing, the man stood up. Walked to the bar. Angry now. Very.
“Listen. Can. I. Have. A. F******. Drink. Mate!”
His fingers, dry and twisted, drumming on the edge of the bar.
The bar tender turned. Checked out the tuxedo and the red dress. His face twisted in a sneer, one that made it clear he had seen it before. Seen them before. Knew how it played out. He walked away from the bar, past them. Towards the door in the corner. Left the bar. The door closing behind him. Slam.
The only sounds in the room, the TV, the moans from the couple on the sofa.
“What the f*** do I have. To. Do. To get a f***** drink in this bar!!!”
In a red veiled rage, he reached across the bar, fingers grasping for the bottle of whisky that lay there.
Bottle in hand, he splashed a heavy shot from the bottle. Filled the glass.
“I’ll f****** well help myself then!”
He raised his glass, looked directly into the mirror, saw the tuxedo, the red dress.
And nothing else.
sprinkled
stirred
added
to mask
to obscure
reality harsh bitter life
a cube
a grain
a sprinkle
is that all it takes
to taste
better?
(for mara eastern’s poetry 101 rehab – sugar)
Day Fifteen of Writing 101 requires us to
“think about an event you’ve attended and loved. Your hometown’s annual fair. That life-changing music festival. A conference that shifted your worldview. Imagine you’re told it will be cancelled forever or taken over by an evil corporate force.”
Many hours were spent cogitating, contemplating, considering.
To little avail.
When pressed to name something that I particularly like, or identify a favourite, my mind freezes.
My hometown. Yes, I have a hometown, the place where I was born. But, not a place I regard as “home”. That place lies within. Not outside.
And music festivals? Yeah. Done that. Maybe even have a tee shirt. But, life changing? Nope.
Conferences that shifted my world view? Right. Been to a lot of conferences, find it hard to shift in my sleep during the sessions, but world view shifted? Nope.
Oh, and, as always, the task had a “twist”
“While writing this post, focus again on your own voice. Pay attention to your word choice, tone, and rhythm. Read each sentence aloud multiple times, making edits as you read through. Before you hit “Publish,” read your entire piece out loud to ensure it sounds like you.”
Ok. Now we’re talking. I do like the sound of my own voice. At least, that’s what they say. And that’s good, right? Right? Ah.
So.
I thought a bit more and then it came to me.
I remembered the day I realised that my life as a student was over.
And, yes I mean the studying part.
Not the other.
The mistaken assumption that on leaving University, I would leave behind forever the world of learning.
That’s what I am writing about.
Walking along a pavement in London. Thinking, no more Schrödinger’s cat, no more complex organic compounds, no more contemplating the infinite.
No more questioning the why, what, how, when, where and if.
No. I realised that I had traded that life of learning for a living.
Instead of reading to discover, I would read to earn money.
Yes, they had taken my soul.
An evil corporate force, well actually several different evil corporate forces, would now determine my direction.
No more worrying about the fifth dimension, the forces that bind the universe, the philosophical questions about who we are. And why.
No, now, balance sheets and books of account, files and fiches, debits and credits. A trial balancing account. A life where learning would end.
So. Yes, at that moment my heart and soul went cold.
So. Yes, I was wrong.
The learning and lessons had only begun, the real class about to start.
The class of life.
People, relationships, love, loss. And all the bits in between.
The event I feared. The end of learning. It never happened.
Instead, it blossomed and grew.
And, not just in me. In the faces of those who followed. Upturned eyes, hands reaching out, those searching questions again from younger minds. And the total trust that I would know the answer.
So, next time. When someone asks why.
Think hard, before replying.
As today’s Writing 101 prompt involves the use of “voice”, I decided to accompany my writing with a recording of today’s response.
(for wordpress writing 101 – day fifteen)
she reached out
his fingers stretched
don't let go
don't go
don't
(for wordpress weekly photo challenge – motion and also for lucile’s photo 101 rehab)
*shot with nikon d700, nikkor 85mm f/1.8 lens at 1/60s and f/16, edited in lightroom cc and analog efex pro 2, motion filter applied, not letting go*
andy townend 