writing 101 (april 2015)

dark clouds

Image | | andy townend

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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)

happy (?)

Image | | andy townend

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The thing was.

To focus on the plate.

That, was the thing.

The smell, the shapes, the promise of that hot food.

The escape it represented.

Two sausages.

A pile of fresh cooked chips.

The tang of (too much) salt and vinegar.

The splash of (toxic) red tomato sauce.

Slicing into a salt, sauce and vinegar soaked sausage.

Then, it didn’t matter.

The cold wind, the salty sea breeze.

The acrid smell of the Pirelli factory.

The smell of fear.

That didn’t matter.

The scary thoughts and bad dreams.

That didn’t matter.

What mattered was not wanting the plate to be empty.

To place the knife and fork on the plate.

And to walk again back outside.

With them.

That’s what mattered.

(for wordpress writing 101 – day ten)

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)

death to adverbs

Image | | andy townend

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It was hot, under a dry and searing sun which burned with unexpected intensity.

She walked with firm purpose across the bridge.

Her feet clad in flat soled shoes, head bowed, brow furrowed, looking down at the floor, perhaps avoiding the bright afternoon sun.

Or, perhaps, avoiding something else.

In her right hand, she held her smartphone, with a strong grip. She held it close to her body. So close, it suggested something.

Her expression implied worry, fear, a mind distracted and expectant.

The wires trailed from her ears. The message she heard from the voices in those small speakers creating a feeling of dissonance.

The world she knew. Not the world she listened to with a sense of longing mixed with fear.

In her left hand, she held those important things, the things she had spent all morning searching for.

The papers that might make all the difference.

Her eyes seemed dark and tired.

As if, she held a secret.

That they must never know.

The papers would tell her story.

Perhaps.

(for wordpress writing 101 – day eight)

give and take

Image | | andy townend

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an unusually hot day, sirens scored the air, people jostled, pushed

“hey, look i told you, leave me be”

looking away, he grasped the bag tighter

“we can’t lose it this time”

looking down, intent, focused, aching, needing to void the pain

“yeah, right, tell me, or bloody don’t, what do you care”

“more than you imagine, this may be the last chance we have”

again, hunched over, looking down

“it’s no better, god, i think it’s got worse”

looking away, walking away

“told you it would end like this, you never bloody cared and now look at you, in a public place…”

not able to focus, too intent on the now, the need, the ache

“look, i can’t cope, i can’t wait, give me a break”

the handles of the plastic bag cut deep into his palm

“i can’t do this any more”

shrugging his shoulders, the metal screen, inviting

“that’s a bloody relief”

(for wordpress writing 101 – day seven)

character building

Image | | andy townend

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The face looked back at him, a stranger’s face.

Eyes once strong and sincere, bold and blue.

Eyes that looked deep into you, not at you.

Eyes that once left you engaged, eager, expectant.

Eyes that made you want to know more, to reach out.

Those eyes, had become washed out and grey. Where was the sparkle, where was that singular smile that shone from inside.

The lines crawling from the corners of his eyes, trailing back away from his face. He wondered, were these the lines of laughter, or furrows of fear. From where had they come.

And how had he not seen until now.

He shuddered a little, as he recalled a time when those eyes were scrunched up, when fingers and fists had been screwed into them, the skin dry and hurting and still he rubbed and rubbed.

And it wouldn’t go away.

And still, deep inside those eyes, he saw a flicker, a not quite faded flame, fighting back.

The pupils dilated, blue growing stronger.

What was this.

He saw, inside, there was still light, flecks of grey swirled and shifted and blue blossomed once more.

The lines, those lines he once feared, those lines were friends.

They spoke of shared smiles, lessons learned, fears faced down.

Lines of life.

So, on reflection, as he looked in the mirror, and turned off the light, he decided, it had all been

a

character building experience.

(for wordpress writing 101 – day six)

unlock the mind

Image | | andy townend

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So, I used to be chastised for starting sentences with that word, and in that way. Come to think of it I have always felt that my grammar skills lacked, well, lacked skills. But, no matter. I have always enjoyed writing and so, here I am doing just that.

Actually, right now, what I am doing is free writing. It is Saturday, and I am finally attending to my “homework” set on Day One (Monday) of the WordPress bl;logging u. writing 101 online course, the third such course I have taken recently in an effort to learm, or stop my braincells decaying as they will, or something.

The challenge here is the free writing means just hat, you write and write and write for a timed period with no clear plan and woithout going back to edit and chck, so please forgive the typos and Mac inspired c=sleppchecking if there is any, I m not allowed to check or go back and review – so, unusually for me, “i` will do as i am told

The rules, ssuch as there are any require you to write from the mind or heart or wherever for a fixed period and unlock water lies beneath, quite asacry prospect no?

What I am finding interesting is that I have set the timer of my phone and I will only wrote for 20 minutes and will stop and not eddf ay the end of that..And i am finding that my old exam fears have come to the fore, whenever I sat an exam, especially one that i knew i could handle and knew my stuff, i would shut down and write so fast that my fingers would ache and scream as my hand shot across the page trying to show the examiner that i really d ‘know’ , often of course that meant after the 20 allotted minutes for that question had es;asked, I would stop, look at the page and realise in a cold slimy feeling of horror, that i had answered the spring quarsion. ever been there?

So….pauses for breath, perhaps i will slow down a little, and in case you are interested, the timer now tells me there are 12 minutes and 18 seconds to go although by the time i finish writing that time will have changed

Which also reminds me how fascinated i am with time and what a strange concept it really is. What is now? Now is utterly meaningless, like schodingers cat 9yes i know i misspelled it but j am not editing tthis pieve ok? So, like the cat whose master i failed to spell, now is a hard concept to pin down, by the time we has uttered the word or considered now it is already gone, never to come back and only the future awaits, and that now rapidly becomes a memory and later fades, and yet at the times it was so very real. So, what is now?

I should also add that at school i was always told off for talking in class and generally not sitting still I remember well the time a frustrated teacher, well a dark
black clad irish priest threw a board rubber at me (ha anyone even know what one of those is) and the chalk dust exploded in my face which whitened as the prisest simply uttered my last name in a for of frustrated malevolence

And noww? Now I am writing this, against the clock, I really must get all my ideas out or i will fail and how will i survive/ And now? Now I am listening to BBC Fadio 4 listening to an article on why men once thought mullets were cool an ocasionally staring into space at the rain outside and listening to the laundry rotating in the machine behind me

Quick check on timer tells me that there are 5 minutes and 48 seconds to go, the radio is now talking about lewis caroll and I am beginning to tire, how do writers do this. And like in those examination days the point of what i am doing is lost in the moment, lost in the now as i strufggle to remember the question and try to piece together the facts and ideas whistling in my head with whatever the examiner sitting in a dusty room somehether thought it would be fun to set for students struggling in an airless room in the june sun, oh yes thanks for that memory

and so back to now, what is it, i really do love think about it, those people who say you must live in the now, not the present not the future, do they know what the are saying? like a mayfly to live in a moment that will vanish, never be there again, perhaps not even live at all because there is probably a mathemeticla equation that proves that now is an impossibility, so i must keep going, the clock is ticking my time is rnbbinyg out so this will no longer be now but added to al, the faded memories except this one with all the typos will be there for ever in cyber apace

so, i will keep writing, maybe to stay sane and then what will i do next, as now becomes yesterday

so, now that terror as the mind goes blank and i realise that i can’t remember the answer and that I will not be able to

(for wordpress writing 101 – day one)

(and for lucile’s photo101 rehab)

*precisely twenty minutes of free writing (which means no editing hence all the typos) for the first day of the wordpress writing 101 blogging u. course with a photo shot on a 32 year old olympus om10, shot in aperture priority mode with lens wide open with a roll of my favourite ilford delta 3200 inside, only edit to the images was to straighten the image in lightroom 5, after realising that i was apparently unable to stand up straight when taking the shot, go figure*

be brief

Image | | andy townend

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I stumbled, and in doing so, kicked it into the gutter. Again.

I stopped. Knelt down on the hot paving stone. Reached out and felt for it.

Finding it, I picked it up carefully. Anxiously.

I could feel the cold metal surface. The familiar buttons. I knew what happened next.

I turned away from the light. Raised my hand, lifted a corner of the stained bandage from my eye.

I lifted it so I could see the screen. And there it was.

The message.

That simple, clear message, no ambiguity. My breath caught in my throat. I knew that I had to, I had to give it back. I must give it back.

That noise, again, the screeching.

The blinding white light and then.

Then nothing.

Gradually, I became aware of my surroundings.

I stumbled, and in doing so, kicked it into the gutter.

(for wordpress writing 101 – day five)