Places

possession

Image | | andy townend
flea market, brugge, once were (prized) possessions?
flea market, brugge, once were (prized) possessions?

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)

 

intricate (eye)

Image | | andy townend 
 
                        “the soul, fortunately, has an interpreter - often an unconscious but still a faithful interpreter - in the eye” 
                                                                                                           ― charlotte brontë, jane eyre

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(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

mirror

Image | | andy townend

atownend_20130810_3829

 

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.

motion

Image | | andy townend

2015_04_19_01574-Edit

                              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*

dark clouds

Image | | andy townend

2015_04_19_01551-Edit

Today, I overheard two statements that made me think.

Pause.

And worry, more than a little.

Of course, that’s what I do.  I worry.

The first was something along the lines “he admitted he was morally guilty…” but “denied he had committed any crime”.

The second, in an interview discussing the looming British election “the idea of voting with your heart and hoping for some change…”

Two overheard snatches of discussion, though seemingly unrelated, seemed suddenly, and terribly, connected.

The power, responsibility and role of the individual in the great sweep of history and world events. When most people are simply worried about making ends meet and what they may, or may not, watch on TV tonight.

The feeling of helplessness that so many experience when considering where to place their cross on the ballot paper.

Will it make any difference? Does anyone care? Why bother?

Well, of course, the answer is yes, it does matter.

It matters an enormous amount.

As indeed does the trial of the former guard at Auschwitz who admitted to “moral guilt” but not to committing a “crime”.

It made me think where moral guilt starts.

And ends.

And, where committing a crime starts and ends. And what is moral guilt?

If we don’t vote, and the government that takes power goes on to commit atrocities, where do our responsibilities begin and end?

And, in collecting the money, yet asking for a transfer to other duties, how guilty is that guard.  Really.

And what would any of us do?

When we stand in judgement, do we stand in the shoes of all those ordinary people who allowed it to happen, looked the other way, felt powerless, or intimidated, or abused, or afraid. I wonder?

And crucially, at what point would we realise that our actions, or inactions, form part of a continuum that enables atrocities to take place.

Something worth thinking about before placing that cross on a slip of paper?

I think so.

(For the last two weeks I have been attempting to learn how to write better. I’ve been taking part in Writing 101, an online course hosted by Michelle W from the WordPress Blogging U.

Today’s prompt was “take a cue from something you’ve overheard and write a post inspired by a real-life conversation. Revisit a time when you wish you’d spoken up, reminisce about an important conversation that will always stick with you, or tune in to a conversation happening around you right now and write your reaction.” Each prompt comes with a twist. Today’s twist was to ‘include an element of foreshadowing in the beginning of your post.”

(for wordpress writing 101 – day twelve)

size matters (in sentences)

Image | | andy townend

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Size matters.

Well, maybe it does, and maybe it doesn’t.

Either way, we seem to spend a disproportionate amount of time wondering about whether it does, or it doesn’t, and why it matters, especially when we are twelve.

What I do remember is that, size or not. Ratios mattered. And I mean gear ratios.

My first “real” bicycle only had three.

Gears.

It was a beautiful blue bicycle, and it had three gears.

But, they were Sturmey Archer, and so not Derailleur.

And, at the age of 12, all I wanted was Derailleur.

Not Sturmey Archer.

So, when, after much pleading and yearning and moaning and whining, my trusty blue Raleigh was upgraded by a slick and shiny Puch.

It was Austrian, not from Birmingham.

Imagine, my excitement, yellow and green frame, white taped curving handlebars, not blue not boring, a racing machine.

My heart beating fast, I ran my fingers over those white taped bars.

My heart stopped.

What was this.

The familiar feel of a three geared machine.

So, to compensate for my lack of size, or in this case, ratios, I learned how to use my flying machine and how to swerve and stop in a flurry of dust and flying stones.

All to show the one with the blue eyes and blonde hair that, really, it’s not the size or the ratios that matter.

It’s what you can do with it.

That matters.

(For the last two weeks I have been attempting to learn how to write better. I’ve been taking part in Writing 101, an online course hosted by Michelle W from the WordPress Blogging U.

Today’s prompt was “where did you live when you were 12 years old?”. Each prompt comes with a twist. Today’s twist was ‘pay attention to your sentence lengths and use short, medium and long sentences as you compose your response about the home you lived in when you were twelve.

I didn’t want to write about where I lived when I was 12, and one day I may write about why, although back then, I think I lived in the saddle.  Of that bicycle.)

(for wordpress writing 101 – day eleven)

poetry 101 rehab: day

Image | | andy townend

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in the space, of a day

what would you say

all the things, you wanted to say

those things about love and longing, fancies and fears

things about war and want, famines and floods

or, maybe just a few words about the space

the space where she lay

in just the space

of a day

 

(for mara eastern’s poetry 101 rehab – day)

early bird

Image | | andy townend
“i love the smell of book ink in the morning” ― umberto eco
“i love the smell of book ink in the morning”
― umberto eco

the early bird

catches the worm

the early truck

worms its way

through

the

crud

(for wordpress weekly photo challenge – early bird)

point of view

Image | | andy townend

redknit

Her fingers were gnarled, sore and stiff. Shoulders hunched against the cold wind that embraced her. A wind that cared for nothing, no one.

Glasses balanced on her nose, the red of the small sweater filled her field of view.

She continued to knit.

As she always did.

She wondered who might one day buy this tiny knitted thing. It seemed that no one bought anything anymore. They walked on by, they looked, or looked away, they shot their photos, and, embarrassed, walked away.

She was nothing to them. These people that walked on by.

She remembered that day, so long ago, when the wind was not a wind, but a warming breeze. That day, she had sat on the bench. In that park.

And yes, she had been working away on the tiny red sweater even then.

Intent on her work she had not seen them approach. But she knew.

He, the tall man with those cold blue eyes, felt her slim fingers tighten in his palm, the nails drawing blood in thin lines. Those delicate fingers he knew so well, that even in the heat of that late summer afternoon, felt cold, brittle.

And, he knew why.

He heard, felt, her catch her breath. He looked at her. Light hair blowing in that gentle breeze, and he saw her turn and look at the bench.

He knew who she would see, even before his eyes joined hers.

It was her. Again.

That feeling came back to him, some long buried sense of duty, fear, emptiness. He could not quite place it. It was just there, it always was.

She felt him recoil slightly as with her fingers she tightened her grip on his hand, that big hand, the hand she both wanted and feared. She felt the wind in her hair as she sensed him turn to look at her. Her eyes were fixed on the woman on the bench.

That same sense of longing filled her. If only he could feel what she felt.

For now, she felt the wind in her hair.

He could not look again at the woman on the bench. Not again.

She paused, her fingers gripping his, she turned to the woman on the bench. She bent lower, with her free hand she brushed her hair away from her eyes.

She knew what she wanted to say.

As she remembered this, the look in the woman’s eyes as she brushed away the hair from her face, she paused in her knitting. Shivered against the cold. And against it all.

The words she wanted to speak would not come, despite the warm summer wind, she shivered, as if a cold wind had swept across the park. She looked at the woman, their eyes met. They both knew then, that nothing would ever be the same. But, that it would always be. Nothing more.

He saw this, turned away, gazed across the park to the river. he knew that it was over.

She sighed, and continued to knit.

As she always did.

(for wordpress writing 101 – day nine)