This post is a combined response to ‘Day 7: Let social media inspire you’, last Tuesday’s prompt on the WordPress Writing 101 course (which asked us to respond to one from a selection of embedded tweets), and to the Daily Post Weekly photo challenge which this week asked us to share a photo that would make us forget the sad times, ‘this week, it’s all about revelling in a win’.
So, in responding to both prompts, this post goes a little ‘off piste’, as I used one of my own tweets and, decided to reflect on the concept of Victory in the light of recent events and my own experience.
On the morning of 7 July, 2005, I walked out from the door of my apartment and walked about 200m towards the London Undergound station at Edgware Road. For some reason I had a sudden change of mind, I decided to take the bus. Instead of walking straight on and down into the station to take the tube I normally took, I turned left and jumped aboard a bus. Moments later, well, moments later is now history. My decision to turn left meant I am not (yet) history.
Both of these photos were taken from the balcony of our apartment in London.
For days afterwards, weeks, months, sleep was impossible, the streets were closed, within a few hundred metres lay St Mary’s Hospital, London and Paddington Green Police Station.
That day in London, the day after all of us who lived and worked in London had celebrated the ‘victory’ of being selected as the hosts of the 2012 Olympic Games, turned into a day from hell. A day in which four suicide bombers killed 52 people and injured 700 more. A few days later, an innocent man was gunned down at an underground station because he was thought to be a terrorist.
Who is the victor here? The suicide bombers, who despite the intense security after 9/11 managed to evade the security put in place by a (once) powerful nation? The people of London (and I was one of them) who the next day defiantly boarded tube trains to show we would not be intimidated? The military personnel who guide drones to kill from the skies?
None of us.
There are no victors in this war.
The world will not be at peace until we find a way to resolve our differences.
“in the space between chaos and shape there was another chance”
― jeanette winterson
This is my contribution to Day 6 of the WordPress Writing 101 course.
You can see all my scribbles for the course by clicking here and if you really have little else to do you can click here to browse my complete contributions to the Writing 101 course that I participated in during April 2015.
space (to write)
I don’t have a specific space in which to write, nor do I have a particular place in which to do so, at least not in a dedicated sense. In fact it could be said that I don’t have space (or indeed) time in my busy life to write, let alone the ring-fenced space, or time, in which to do so.
Nevertheless, I do so.
Or at least I try to do so.
For some months this year the theoretical, literary and practical concepts of space and place featured prominently in my life. But, as some may say, that’s another story, and, should I stray there, I risk digression and well, as I say, that’s another story. Perhaps for another day, another life.
Writing is not just the physical act of putting words on paper or screen, it is the whole process which begins with that glimmer of an idea, the collation of thoughts, the decision to tell the story, and then, at the end, the writing down of the tale.
I’ve always enjoyed telling stories.
My writing now falls into two distinct zones. The work zone, where I write documents for a living. Reports and recommendations are part of the bread and butter of my life as a consultant. That writing needs to be crisp, to the point, making the incomprehensible accessible.
And then, well then, there is the writing I do here, and on belgianstreets and belgradestreets. This is where I have been trying to improve my writing, express myself and have a great deal of fun in doing so.
Most of my writing is done hunched over the screen of either my 11” MacBook Air or my 17” MacBook Pro, the former is tiny and can almost literally go anywhere, the latter has a bigger screen and is much easier to use but heavier so tends to stay at my desk. I have written with the Air in pubs and bars, on planes and trains, on park benches, in airport lounges, and pretty much anywhere else you care to imagine (or perhaps not).
I do have a vice though. In addition to using my Apples, I do love to scribble in those wonderful black Moleskine journals, then I feel like a ‘real’ writer, and I prefer the kind with blank pages as that lends itself to not only scribbling but crazy mind mapping and sketches, all of which helps to make sense of my topic. Or not.
I have tried all manner of writing apps on my macs.
My current favourite, for getting ideas on to the page quickly and with the minimum of fuss is IA Writer, this one is writing stripped back to the core. A great old fashioned typewriter font on a pure white background, no menus, nothing but the words magically appearing in front of me (I wish!). You can almost hear the carriage return zinging on the typewriter 😉
And then, there is Scrivener, from Literature and Latte. This one I love. Scrivener takes a while to learn, although I know some who have taken to it like a duck to water and grasped its every detail with amazing speed. When the time is put in to get to grips with the app it pays back in spades. I am using Scrivener to help me write my serial story dark | side | thursday. I could write and write here about Scrivener, but I will spare you the pain. Just to say that it is wonderful if you want to capture and collate ideas and organise your work in just about any way you want. Try it, and if you do let me know what you think?
Sometimes, when an idea pops up I might even just jot it down on a post it note (which I then lose) or tap it into the notes app on my iPhone for further work.
I’m also a great fan of mind mapping (see above) and as well as scribbling on bits of paper, a whiteboard, or in my Moleskine, I’ve also invested in two apps to help me, Scapple from the makers of Scrivener, and MindNode Pro, both of which help me in organising my thoughts before I write.
My ideal physical space for writing? Well, that’s quite simple, A space in an attic, not only for my writing but for my photography. Somewhere to write, to edit, to keep together all the tools of my craft (and maybe one day, trade), a place of my own, lined with books and prints of my photos.
My own space.
A place to be.
Me.
The prompt for Day 6 of Writing 101 then went on to seek feedback from you with suggestions on what you think I should write.
My writing to date, here at least, comprises the following:
Do you miss the Writing 201 Poetry course by the Daily Post? If so, then join this blogging challenge and let the poetry flow!
How does it work?
Feel free to answer the prompt, twist it or ignore it; write a poem of your own or share a poem by another author. Write about your inspiration, your creative process or other poetry related thoughts, but this is in no way obligatory. Nothing is obligatory in this challenge. The idea is to get together, talk poetry and have fun!
How can you take part?
Anyone can take part, anytime you want. Publish your poetry post and add a link to it by clicking on the Poetry 101 Rehab badge below or share your link in a comment. Use the tag Poetry 101 Rehab, so we can find each other in the Reader.
I will act as your host, and I’ll be here for you to reply to your comments, read your poetry, like and comment. While this post is the starting point for the challenge, do visit fellow poets in the link-up and chat to them on their blogs!
This week’s prompt is MISSING.
something is
missing
something that was
missing
something that could have been
missing
something that was
missing
something is
missing,
you,
or, is it
me
What will your take on the keyword MISSINGbe? Blog about it in a poetry post and share your link in the comments section of this post and by clicking on the Poetry 101 Badge above.
*shot with nikon d700 and nikkor 50mm f/1.4 lens at ISO6400, f/1.4, 1/125s, minimal edits in lightroom cc and lit by the glowing embers of a real log fire*
*four images were provided with today’s prompt, I elected to choose a similar one of own, shot with nikon d700 and 16-35mm f/4 lens and originally featured on my blog, belgianstreets*
Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge? Are you open to sharing your dark side? Then read on.
Do you have a dark side?
Or, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so, join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.
Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday
Share your dark side?
I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.
dark | side | thursday | twentyfive
His eyes closed.
His inert body sank below the surface of the back water, coming to rest on the submerged floor of the tomb. Face down.
Ripples splayed out on the surface of the water, enlarging concentric circles the only trace of his passage from the ground above. Soon, even those petered out. The black water still, impenetrable.
Had he been able to look up, from the place his body rested, and been able to see through the dark water, he would have seen a small whiskered face gazing down into the water below. Cold blue eyes, pupils dark slits, revealing nothing. Two clawed paws gripping the edge of the hole.
And, had he continued to look, he would have seen another pair of eyes join those of the whiskered sentinel at the portal of death. These eyes, dark, unmoving.
Her eyes.
She stood there, the creature at her feet. The ripped white shift she wore still clinging to the curves of her body. Stained and shredded by the horrors she had suffered. Her hair ragged and dirty, pasted to her face, a face covered in the filth of the night.
She bent down, the shift rising up as she did, revealing her emaciated and bruised body. She lifted the creature up, cradling it in her hands, raised it to her lips and pressed her thin cold lips to those of her familiar. The kiss was long and deep, her body shuddered, the fur on the back of the creature erect, it’s claws digging into the soft skin of her hands.
The dark kiss ended.
She placed the creature back on the floor.
Behind her, another moved. The man in black. He moved toward the hole in the ground. Stooped, reaching toward the rough hewn boards that lay partly covering the water filled tomb. He pulled them across the hole, covering it. Blocking the light. He continued his work, placing heavy stones on the boards. Sealing the opening.
He turned to her. His lips a thin dark slash in the darkness of his face. His voice harsh, grating, “He will trouble you no more”.
She turned. Walked away.
Reaching the plot next to the stopped up hole she knelt. She lay down on the cold stone, her arms reaching out, seeking comfort in the cold stone. Her body stiff, bruised, her breast pressed hard against the harsh stone. Her empty dark eyes closed.
The man in black walked away, along the path toward the iron gates. He did not turn back. He did not touch her, did not speak to her. Walked away. Walked toward the waiting red tram. The bell rang three times, the door opened. He climbed aboard. The door slammed shut. The tram moved away slowly.
It was dark. So cold. So very cold. His eyes opened. He saw nothing. He was soaking wet. Feeling returning to his aching fingers and arms. He reached out. Fingers clawing along the cold floor.
His fingers touched metal. A key.
The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.
Es muss auch Spiel und Unschuld sein und Blütenüberfluss sonst wär’ die Welt uns viel zu klein
und Leben kein Genuss.” – Herman Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte
All around and on the ground Blooms strive to live Underground, over ground Nature lives as she gives Desperation grounded, death confounded Abundance, living, giving Never failing to, Cheat Extinction
*shot with nikon d700 and 50mm f/1.4 lens at ISO200 and 1/200s , f/7.1 and edited in lightroom cc , all things survive and grow even in the most unforgiving of places*
andy townend 