to whom it may concern

Image | | andy townend

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(To, whom ever) was (innocent),

Assumed that I was wrong when I heard about your case! I can hardly believe what I have heard, how could you have behaved so? Why?

Very many people have approached me and raised this issue with me, wondering if you are even real. Your entire life seems to be part dream, part real, and yet neither.

Experience suggests that I may need to think more. I mean, your case is perhaps not entirely unique? Maybe you don’t realise? What were you thinking, were you even thinking? This is so hard for me to write about in this way. You know I rarely write letters. But, in this case, I felt prompted to do so. Every word pressed out of me.

Bürstner, did you know Bürstner? It may be pointless to ask, because I haven’t even finished yet, but I do hope you can tell me? I mean, if not, what was the point of it all?

Know this, writing this letter is so very hard.

Particularly as I have had a long hard day at work, the thing I really needed today (I jest) was to be pressed to write about your case. Finding the words is so very hard, I think you know what I mean? Don’t you?

It is almost time, do you realise that? There is not much time left.

Month by month, I have worried about your case. You claim to be innocent, but are any of us? Really? I wrote recently about questions of morality and criminality and guilt. Your case makes me think of that. Maybe you should too? Please do. It may make all the difference.

That’s the point you see. Are you or are you not innocent, do you even know yourself?

Little by little, I am beginning to see why your case is so important. Important to us all as we consider the big questions. And you know I like to do that, and that writing letters is so hard for me, I feel so pressed, every word a prompt to think. Yes, I feel word pressed.

Bürstner. Why do I keep remembering that name? Have a think and let me know if you know the connection?

Knowledge of your case has become common, many people like what they hear, comments are frequently made about the circumstances of how you fell, did you do it alone or were you pressed?  Many felt your words prompted you to step over the edge and do what you did. I believe many may follow you, only time will tell?

Seriously, I mean, just imagine!

Need can be a difficult emotion to handle, I mean, here I am writing to you about your case, but what I really need, is to see you again, talk first hand, hold your hand. And try to forget, you know?

But what then?

Said, do you remember him? He told me that in his country your case would be closed by now. Justice is harsh there. It would all be over.  Done.

Know that I will never forget you, your case, what you are going through, what you have been through? My heart is aching.

Me, I have no bloody idea what I would do in your shoes, I mean your case is very challenging, no?

Was anyone ever so hurt, so challenged as you. Your case appears so clear cut. But, they don’t understand, maybe they never bloody will. I do, you know that! Don’t you?

And when will it all end, do you even care? All the trouble your case has caused. For all of us?

Been too long. I’m so tired, your case, I mean it is exhausting. I need to be free and happy again. You do know that? And yet the circumstances of your case. Keep pulling me back in, like a moth to a flame.

K. Yes, K. He knew. He went through, I think, what you are going through now.  He was too emotional to fix it?

I need you, sorry, as I write, that really is all that matters. Who cares about your case? The truth will come out, but will they care. No!

For no one cares about the truth. Only about their interpretation of the truth, their morals, their right(s). Who cares anyway? And yet. You know I care. Right??

Because, if you don’t, then the third part, you know, his third part, the hard one, the one he doesn’t really want to write about? Well, if you don’t care then maybe the third part will be the only way. The third way?

Interrogation. Yes, that awaits you, oh Hid, please be brave, they can try, but even in your case, they can’t break you, not if you are strong.

Commission, or omission, that will be the question. That will be the determinant in your case, did you commit, or omit, did you act or not. Did you know?

Laughed. Yes, they laughed, bastards, when they realised. When they realised you might have a point!

Said, he knew, yes, Said knew and understood why you did what you did. Do you miss him? I do.

For, now, there is no going back, we can only move on. Whatever the outcome of your case. There is only one real outcome.

Bürstner, I almost feel jealous, I wish you would, or could tell me?  Who?

Was there ever a case like this? Like your case?

Slowly, I can feel the cogs grinding, the machinery turns, your case, our case, will be determined, and then, and then there will be no turning back.

What’s the point? Oh Hid, I am so tired.

Asked them all, what will be the outcome of the case?

Move on, they said.

Fräulein, I remain.

(yours)

 

(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 “Pick up the nearest book and flip to page 29. What’s the first word that jumps off the page? Use this word as your springboard for inspiration.”  The twist in the  prompt was  to “write the post in the form of a letter” .  I turned to page 29 of “The Trial” by Franz Kafka, I went a little further than the prompt, and if you find a copy of the book, you may see how I twisted the twist.”

(for wordpress writing 101 – day fourteen)

serially found (2:3)

Image | | andy townend

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Absolute thinking.

Such thinking really sucks. Big time.

That morning, the sun shone. Yes, really, it did.

Until it stopped.

I remember how it felt to finally feel happy, accepted for who I was. Even if that meant I was a rather poor tennis opponent.  I laughed, I relaxed, I thought about a future.  Dared.

The day after the shortest night.

Only, the night was only just about to begin.

I ran to the net, managed to tip it across, laughed as my opponent floundered, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

A leafy crescent in the centre of the world.

My world.

Which was about to implode.

Tired, and hot, we finished the game.

Walked back inside.

“Hey, there’s a call for you”.

Can you imagine. A time before mobiles existed. When shared phones in dingy corners were all that connected us? Or didn’t?

I took the handset, is that we called them then (I don’t think so?) and held it to my ear.

That familiar voice, one I thought had gone for ever. A voice full of things I could not, would not, hear.

“There’s been an accident. You need to come home.”

It wasn’t. But I did.

And so.  After a morning of tennis and smiles. Laughter and life. I sat on the dusty kerb.

Waited for a car from a familiar stranger.

To pick me up.

That sleek, sporty BMW.

White. Dark light.

Transported me from light. Into a night that seemed then without end.

And that afternoon, as my fingers turned numb, my breath caught in my throat.

I found, what I had lost.

(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 “if you wrote day four’s post as the first in a series, use this one as the second installment — loosely defined”

(for wordpress writing 101 – day thirteen)

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

2015_04_18_01320-Edit

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)

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

2015_04_15_01048

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)