(nijverheidskaai, molenbeek)
(for mara eastern’s poetry 101 rehab – couple)
*shot with nikon d700, nikkor 70-300 mm f/4.0-5.6 lens at 300mm, 1/320s and f/9, edited in lightroom cc, aperture efex pro 2 with multi lens filter applied, poem added in photoshop cc, no couples were harmed in the making of this post*
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)
“the soul, fortunately, has an interpreter - often an unconscious but still a faithful interpreter - in the eye”
― charlotte brontë, jane eyre
(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
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)
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*
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)
the early bird
catches the worm
the early truck
worms its way
through
the
crud
(for wordpress weekly photo challenge – early bird)
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)
andy townend 