I got the idea for the story by stumbling upon the photo.
My reaction (there was no caption) was one of technical interest in the 'artistic quality' of the photo. Purely dispassionate and esthetic consideration--AT FIRST.
I read a paragraph UNDER the photo, however...and was suddenly struck by the words
Auschwitz interior door to "shower house" gas chamber!
Then and there--I had to write something which framed the situation.
TerryWalstrom
JoinedPosts by TerryWalstrom
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Junkyard Photo (Door)
by TerryWalstrom ini see where you were shooting and what did i tell you?
don't bother lying!".
the heavyset man could have been a bulldog or a gargoyle.
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TerryWalstrom
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Junkyard Photo (Door)
by TerryWalstrom ini see where you were shooting and what did i tell you?
don't bother lying!".
the heavyset man could have been a bulldog or a gargoyle.
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TerryWalstrom
Thank you.
It has been many years since I watched the Documentary SHOAH.
It has remained with me. (Except for the detail about the gas.) Much obliged. -
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Junkyard Photo (Door)
by TerryWalstrom ini see where you were shooting and what did i tell you?
don't bother lying!".
the heavyset man could have been a bulldog or a gargoyle.
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TerryWalstrom
JUNKYARD PHOTO (Door)
"You again! I see where you were shooting and what did I tell you? Don't bother lying!"
The heavyset man could have been a bulldog or a gargoyle. Hard on the eyes and offensive, he jabbed accusingly at the young man with his craggy finger.
Karl hefted his camera bag and shouldered the bulky tripod, trudging toward the junkyard owner.
"Sorry--I've been looking for interesting textures all morning...right where you told me...there's only junk and--"
"This is a junkyard! Are you feeble? Now get out."
Karl lifted the burden from his shoulder, laying the Nikon ever so gently on the gravel road which ran along the fence.
"I tell you straight out--I've won awards for my pictures. I'm not just any idiot student whose parents spent a fortune on a hobby."
The old man stood planted without blinking; saying nothing.
Karl kept going. What could it hurt?
"My pictures hang in galleries. I have a gifted eye. I will credit your...your...establishment, I promise."
"Gustav Schmidt's Junkyard?" The proprietor growled. "A prize-winning photo?"
Karl felt his heart leap. He thought, "Ego! I've got him!"
The young man took two steps closer and reached into his khaki jacket. Schmidt's eyes narrowed when he caught sight of the brochure.
"See. Herr Schmidt, 1st Prize, blue ribbon, one-man show. These are mine. My work sells well and important people...influentials purchase the images. That's why I'm here. I have this commission for Volkswagen regional headquarters. The image must have industrial texture but it cannot be a mere 'object d'art' sort of image."
"Volkswagen? I don't understand. Go to a car lot, not a junkyard."
Karl wiped sweat from his grimy brow and heaved a long breath.
"I'm sorry--I didn't properly explain. The entrance hall needs an image which is not product-specific. It must be highly evocative and mysterious to capture the eye--yet allowing each person's imagination to elicit a personal reaction."
"Humpf!" Schmidt snorted dismissively. "Nonsense!"
The tall, gangly photographer turned slightly and swept his arm in a half circle, indicating the vast hoard of castoff litter, rusted parts, bent pipes, and strewn wreckage.
"Just a minute ago, I found exactly what I was looking for. An old sliding door with scratches. I caught the light just so. It means nothing and yet evokes a strong feeling to my eyes. I bracketed my shots moving the stop as I snapped. I'm sure it is perfect."
Gustav Schmidt frowned and shook his head menacingly. Yet he said nothing.
"As I said, I shall make certain your establishment is credited as the location."
Schmidt sneered and his eyes reddened suddenly. "You'll do nothing of the kind! I shall take you to court if you mention me at all--you understand? Get out of here and don't come back!"
Karl snatched up his bag and tripod and nodded. He had what he needed. To hell with the old fool.
_________
Some months later, Schmidt entered the great foyer to the Volkswagen Regional Headquarters. The architecture was magnificent. The old man shuffled laboriously toward the mural on the far side where a billboard sized photo was installed next to a billowing fountain.
Yes. Just as he had known. Schmidt pulled off his tattered cap and threw it violently on the polished marble floor of the vestibule.
"Ignorant asses!" The old man shouted and heads turned his direction. A man in uniform strode over and whispered something in Schmidt's ear. The two of them walked off together.
In the following week, money changed hands. Attorneys conferenced. Newspaper journalists were bribed.
The enormous photo was removed in the dead of night.
Hardly a soul noticed.
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When the matter finally settled, Karl the photographer worked up the courage to return to Gustav Schmidt's Junkyard.
The old man wrinkled his nose as though he were about to spit--but thought the better of it.
"I'm sorry Herr Schmidt. I thought you ought to know. I've installed that offending piece elsewhere. I donated it. No money changed hands. I thought you would be happy to hear there is proper attribution. A plaque beneath the framed art clarifies everything."
The young man's head hung slightly, like a scolded mongrel.Herr Schmidt raised an eyebrow and nodded quietly.
He spoke as though he were in a holy place in careful, emotive words.
"Ferdinand Porsche knew what he was doing. Volkswagen is an abomination. That family is famous...rich...they've gone unpunished. You have no idea..."
The low voice trailed off like the echo of a wounded animal in a distant cave.
Karl nodded.
"I do know. Now, I do. Something about that old steel door spoke to my soul. Nothing accidental about it. Things happen for a reason--I believe."
Schmidt flushed crimson as he half-turned and confronted the young man.
"You're damned right. Things happen because men make them happen. I lost my family there. Those scratches--the fingernails of innocent Jews clawing at the only door as Xylon gas filled the chamber. I told you to stay away from the fenced area. You didn't listen. Now get the hell out of my sight."
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Weeks later, Schmidt fumbled with his spectacles, placing them on his nose as he squinted at the plaque under the enormous photo of the steel door.
"Auschwitz Gas Chamber Door."
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Is there truth in religion
by bola ini am asking this questions due to the teachings, beliefs and practices of different religions..
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What Kind of Activism?
by TerryWalstrom inactivism or any kind of push back really is not about the size of your emotion, your disgust, or the feeling of powerless frustration at the religion.being an ex-jw is about one of two things and two things only:1. being effective.
2. being ineffectiveto which i add: effective at what?1.
not identifying yourself as the foaming at the mouth, demonic, mentally diseased piece of shit the watchtower has framed you out to be in the minds of their captive slaves.2.
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TerryWalstrom
For those who have lost all their friends and family and who are considered mentally diseased the only way to gain self-respect SEEMS to be in finding a way to return the HURT from a feeling of righteous indignation.
The irony comes with remembering it was THEIR own warped righteous indignation which brought about the split in the first place. They saw you as you now see them.
But as natural a feeling as that is, after awhile it will devour you if you don't let it go. IF for no other reason--it doesn't solve anything and it lowers you to their level.
The way to win is to not lose.
Figuring out the way to "win" requires considerable maturity and--dare I say it--"love."
You save them and they are no longer enemies.
Twist ending:)But it's really hard to get there in your head. It really is.
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What Kind of Activism?
by TerryWalstrom inactivism or any kind of push back really is not about the size of your emotion, your disgust, or the feeling of powerless frustration at the religion.being an ex-jw is about one of two things and two things only:1. being effective.
2. being ineffectiveto which i add: effective at what?1.
not identifying yourself as the foaming at the mouth, demonic, mentally diseased piece of shit the watchtower has framed you out to be in the minds of their captive slaves.2.
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TerryWalstrom
pbrow says:
Thanks for assuming the motives of every ex here. You must be a mind readerWe all do things for our own reasons.
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Let me offer my apology if my words came across as high-handed mind reading. You are surely correct when you say our "own reasons."
I guess I meant something more akin to the old adage, "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions."
It's obvious so many active JW's have the best intentions in the world for what they do. Not all of them are trembling with anxiety and pining for rescue from the likes of us.
By the same token, I'm pretty clear on how the very mention of being EX triggers a Pavlovian impulse in the Dub at the door to bolt.
If I go off on them, the reinforcement of their programming is surely intensified.
Being friendly, real, and reasonable sews an approachable seedbed from which later something liberating may spring.
Or not. -
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They Hanged Mary (I was going to tell you about it)
by TerryWalstrom inthey hanged mary(i was going to tell you about it).
but then, i got "hung up".first off, to say "they hanged..." sounds awkward to most ears--even though it is entirely correct grammar!that stopped me.
temporarily.then...i decided on a new title:mary was hungoh, jeeze--that certainly gives a completely wrong impression of story content!
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TerryWalstrom
Only recently has the town of Erwin (technically the location of the hanging) created a fund for circus elephants and another town in Tennessee actually has a habitat available.
That only took about 100 years! -
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They Hanged Mary (I was going to tell you about it)
by TerryWalstrom inthey hanged mary(i was going to tell you about it).
but then, i got "hung up".first off, to say "they hanged..." sounds awkward to most ears--even though it is entirely correct grammar!that stopped me.
temporarily.then...i decided on a new title:mary was hungoh, jeeze--that certainly gives a completely wrong impression of story content!
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They Hanged Mary (I was going to tell you about it)
by TerryWalstrom inthey hanged mary(i was going to tell you about it).
but then, i got "hung up".first off, to say "they hanged..." sounds awkward to most ears--even though it is entirely correct grammar!that stopped me.
temporarily.then...i decided on a new title:mary was hungoh, jeeze--that certainly gives a completely wrong impression of story content!
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TerryWalstrom
THEY HANGED MARY
(I was going to tell you about it)But then, I got "hung up".
First off, to say "They hanged..." sounds awkward to most ears--even though it is entirely correct grammar!
That stopped me. Temporarily.
Then...
I decided on a new title:
MARY WAS HUNG
Oh, Jeeze--that certainly gives a completely WRONG impression of story content! Trust me--can't go there.
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Where did this leave me?
A title has to grab the reader.
If I was too clear about it, the story's payoff would be ruined.As a writer, you can't self-doubt or you're dead in the water.
There is a cross-hairs moment when you pull the trigger on the "reveal" and the impact has to knock the reader backward--if not mortally wounded--at least, morally wounded.Who was Mary and why did those vile citizens of Tennesse scream for her hanging?
I dare not reveal. The 'trigger' moment is ruined.
What was the location? That too is simply a tipoff. Readers are way too smart--they get out ahead of you. If they guess where you're going--the ride is over. You've failed.
The fact that dear, sweet, lovable Mary brutally murdered a man--if not explained honestly and plainly--will turn readers against her and sympathy instantly dries up making her agonizing death--as awful as it was--much less empathetic.The story grabbed my heart and a cold chill went down my spine. It was instantaneous. I was sickened. Did I really want to DO THAT by writing it and offering such a negative experience to my friends?
Why?
Why would I want to do that?And there you have it. My hands are tied. Delivering the story of the townsfolk of Kingsport, Tennessee placing a chain around Mary's neck and hauling her up is brutal.
Where is the art in it?
What good can come of it?
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MARY'S STORY
______________________Mary was not slim, beautiful, or even very graceful but she was beloved. For instance, by children, for her easygoing and genteel nature. Having traveled from Asian against her will, she was always surrounded by men who would not or could not communicate with her other than through enticement or pain.
If she complied, her life was somewhat easier. If she resisted? Well, that had never worked out. Not at all.In her own unique way, she had a kind of fame and renown, like a big fish in a small pond. It wasn't much more than lower run 'show business' if truth be told.
What she did and how she did it was entertaining and delightful. How many of us bring smiles and laughter so easily without degrading ourselves or belittling others?
In Showbiz, you don't have to look perfect. You can be unusual and get away with it. Even so-called freaks of nature could find employment.Hers was a simple life; a life of routine and habit. She enjoyed the company of others and went about her job with dignity and professionalism right up until the day she slowly died.
Let's get this over with, let's face the facts and move on--shall we?
The man's name was Eldridge. He had a shock of red hair and he got the job working with Mary even though he was a hobo and a drifter and no skills. That is unless you call working cheap a skill.
It was after the town's parade had ended everything started to go wrong.
Mary had walked slowly down Main Street that day as crowds cheered, celebrating the arrival of "show people" in town with SPARKS WORLD FAMOUS SHOWS.
She had been with them for years. It was small time but it was show business.
The fresh air and sunshine combined with exercise and a long trek all morning had worked up an appetite. After the parade, Mary settled in for a meal.
That's when Eldridge showed up. Folks called him "Red."
Red didn't care if Mary was enjoying a late breakfast or not. He began screaming orders at her.
Red was just clueless how to treat a lady. The fact he was hired as her boss is a crime in itself. Yet, here he was screaming and cursing at poor Mary. It upset her.
Mary was unable to speak. She was so frightened by Red's outburst and rough handling.
Yes--he was manhandling her now!
So frustrated and ignorant was his rage, he reached for a pointed stick and began threatening Mary.
And that's when it all went mad in the blink of an eye.
That bastard jabbed poor Mary behind her ear and the flash of excruciating pain sent a bolt of electric rage through her body.
She reacted without a moment's thought. It was pure instinct.
A man named W.H. Coleman claimed later to be a witness to the sudden death of Red Eldridge.
He admitted the hobo "boss" had jabbed her and screamed curses. But then, he spared no details of her retaliation either. Red was lying dead on the ground with his skull crushed. Mary had gone mad and stomped him!
A local blacksmith arrived and aimed his pistol at Mary and fired 3 times.
The adrenaline and her size seemed somehow to keep her standing and defiant. She was all worked up and the injustice of her situation kept her on her feet.
And then crowds had arrived and word spread like a grassfire in a drought.
Kingsport was such a tiny, unimportant town with so little excitement--this was chaos and panic beyond all reckoning.
Somebody shouted that there needed to be a hanging.
Nearby, Charlie Sparks, fearing for the reputation of his "World Famous Show" suddenly suggested they use a large crane attached to the railcar just outside on the tracks.
And just like that, in the disastrous bloodlust of small town mentality, so-called "Southern Justice" was at hand!
A chain was placed around Mary's neck and another chain around her ankle. As she was suddenly jerked aloft by the awkward crane mechanism the chain snapped and she plummeted heavily onto her side and her hip broke.
Again she was hoisted in awful agony as her friends and family raised alarm on the other side of the wide-eyed throng of onlookers shouting even louder for her demise.
Reports say 2,500 onlookers and most of that town's children beheld the atrocity as it unfolded to their everlasting shame.
There in the Clinchfield Railroad yard, slowly twisted the body of Mary, as though she were merely nothing more than a fiendish amusement for narrow-minded folks to gawk and gape at.
A fog had rolled in and a steady drizzle set in as Mary's last twitches of life ebbed away.
The chain on her leg had not been removed and the crane's upward lift strained until a loud cracking of Mary's bones suddenly ended the death struggle.
Just like that--the spectacle was over.
The laughter and cheers as Mary's legs had thrashed and trembled now faded into silence--save for the splashing of steady rain as heaven itself wept quietly.
The body of Mary hung still and cold for the better part of an hour before she was finally pronounced officially dead by the local veterinarian.
Yes, this wretched town had hanged an elephant for murder on September 13, 1916.
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What Kind of Activism?
by TerryWalstrom inactivism or any kind of push back really is not about the size of your emotion, your disgust, or the feeling of powerless frustration at the religion.being an ex-jw is about one of two things and two things only:1. being effective.
2. being ineffectiveto which i add: effective at what?1.
not identifying yourself as the foaming at the mouth, demonic, mentally diseased piece of shit the watchtower has framed you out to be in the minds of their captive slaves.2.
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TerryWalstrom
When I first started out writing articles and posting on Ex-JW sites, I was full of piss and vinegar and wanted to "bring down the Organization" and blah and blah and blah.
I was simply full of lava.
And about as effective as Vesuvius.
Just being loud and proud does not an effective activist make.
Reaching somebody is effective.
Reaching a mind and a heart in a human being trapped in fear is very tough.
You have to start each day saying to yourself, "This really isn't about me."And yet, so much of what I was writing and arguing really was all about my anger.
The crunch of knuckles is not a prayer of healing :)
