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*
(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)
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)
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.
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)
andy townend 