View allAll Photos Tagged ,Retching
Snowy Owl (Bubo scandiacus) - Nova Scotia, Canada
I tried to think of a wittier and catchier title. The photo seemed to deserve more, but my mind has turned to clay tonight. I had seen the retch a few times and saw a few pellets drop from a distance, but this was the first time I had a chance to see it really 'fly'.
It's a fascinating behavior that is reminiscent of cats. It also cracks me up!
Thanks for visiting!
regurgitate [ri-gur-ji-teyt]
Part of Speech:verb
Definition:vomit
Synonyms:be seasick, be sick, boff, drive the bus, dry heave, eject, emit, expel, gag, heave, hurl, lose one's lunch, pray to the porcelain god, puke, ralph, retch, spew, spit up, throw up, toss one's cookies, upchuck, urp
rehash [v. ree-hash; n. ree-hash]
Part of Speech:verb
Definition:talk over again
Synonyms: change, discuss, reiterate, repeat, rephrase, restate, reuse , rework, rewrite, say again, state differently
Antonyms: deny, refuse
Look carefully and you'll see a figure leaning over the railing of the bridge about mid-way along...
We couldn't actually see him at the time in the gloomy late-friday night. All we could hear was a retching and groaning followed by a pause then a splash. Luckily he wasn't thinking of ending it all, it was just an unfortunate end to his over-indulgent night of drinking.
This is going to be the last Shard /London Bridge combo I post for a while, I promise. Think I've got it out of my system now, lol.
Riding Hood & Bad Wolf - Issue #9 "Red"
In the past...
The boy found out his sister was taken away from the orphanage by a family, the other girls he snuck out and spoke to said it was a nice one. But he felt alone without her, the people just kept being bad, no heroes came to save him. Something inside the boy faded, his empathy. However, something inside him sparked, something that made him keep going. As the boy grew up, he learned how to survive in the unforgiving world and made his first ever friend but, he never knew what happened to his sister...
_________________________________________________
*The burial of course was for Trevor Greystone, not the Riding Hood the world knew him as. He'd hid in the background watching from afar, listening with his canine ears. BW had already mourned for his friend he seen no point in funerals, he knew there was no body in that grave. He was told to leave RH alone after his death, he didn't want to face the consequences if he chose not to, he didn't want his friends death to be in vain. Despite his primal side BW still felt wrong about not burying RH. He was only watching the grave for one reason, a woman would be there - the one he was promised to look after, RH's sister which he never discussed. Much to BW's concern he never knew anything about RH's past. RH thought they worked better together that way, so that's the way they worked. RH still sacrificed himself for his sister though, he'd made BW promise to care for her. So he would.*
Bad Wolf: "I'll care for her, RH."
*BW waited in the cold for hours, the rain had soaked his fur making him damp but he didn't care. He only cared for RH's sister now. He studied the faces of those who visited the grave, none looking remotely like the girl he'd seen. BW huffed turning slightly until something caught his eye, a red hooded figure approach the grave. She pulled down her hood revealing thick brown hair that flowed down to her lower back, she stood at the grave stone with her arms crossed. BW emerges out from hiding and cautiously approaches the woman who turns her head slightly hearing him.*
Bad Wolf: "Excuse me, Miss Greystone?"
Woman: "Please Wolfie, call me Red."
_________________________________________________
*The figure stumbles out from the swirling rift and drops to his hands and knees tearing off his mask, he retches spewing on the floor groaning. A man chuckles stepping out from the portal trailing something slowly behind him straining with effort, a bodybag. The rift collapses on itself closing abruptly as the man drops the bodybag which slaps off the concrete.*
Man #1: "Oops!"
Man #2: "Be careful or I'll fry you. We don't want him having brain damage if this guy can revive him."
Man #1: "Think his powers actually work?"
Man #2: "I hope not, Riding Hood blackmailed us. But, the boss wants him on the team."
*The man spits standing up and wipes his lips grabbing one end of the bodybag, the other man lifts up the other end and the two carry it up to a house. One of the men stops outside the large door and struggles knocking on it.*
Man #1: "Uh, knock knock. Is Dr. Afterlife in?"
McSorley's Bar
1912
— John Sloan (1871 – 1951)
United States.
**************
About McSorley's
▶ "Perhaps the single greatest novelty of McSorley’s is that it has served one beverage in its 164-year history — Ale!" [now brewed under contract by Pabst].
▶ "McSorley's Old Ale House, generally known as McSorley's, is the oldest 'Irish' saloon in New York City. Opened in 1854 at 15 East 7th Street, in today's East Village neighborhood of Manhattan, it was one of the last of the 'Men Only' pubs, admitting women only after legally being forced to do so in 1970. Two of McSorley's mottos are 'Be Good or Be Gone' and 'We were here before you were born.' Prior to the 1970 ruling, the motto was 'Good Ale, Raw Onions and No Ladies'; the raw onions can still be had as part of McSorley's cheese platter."
▶ Matty Maher, an Institution at an Institution, McSorley’s, Dies at 80
13 January 2020.
▶ "It is a drowsy place; the bartenders never make a needless move, the customers nurse their mugs of ale, and the three clocks on the walls have not been in agreement for many years. "
—The Old House at Home
13 April 1940
▶ "and I was sitting in the din thinking drinking the ale, which
never lets you grow old blinking at the low ceiling my be-
ing pleasantly was punctuated by the always retchings of a
worthless lamp."
—"I was sitting in mcsorley’s."
e e cummings (1923)
[Punctuation is as poet cummings wrote it.]
***************
About John Sloan
▶ "John French Sloan (August 2, 1871 – September 7, 1951) was an American painter and etcher. He is considered to be one of the founders of the Ashcan school of American art. He was also a member of the group known as The Eight. He is best known for his urban genre scenes and ability to capture the essence of neighborhood life in New York City, often observed through his Chelsea studio window: 'an early twentieth-century realist painter who embraced the principles of Socialism and placed his artistic talents at the service of those beliefs.' "
***************
▶ Image via Detroit Institute of Arts (public domain)
▶ Uploaded by Yours For Good Fermentables.com.
▶ For a larger image, type 'L' (without the quotation marks).
— Follow on Facebook: YoursForGoodFermentables.
— Follow on Instagram: @tcizauskas.
▶ Commercial use requires explicit permission, as per Creative Commons.
Dictionary Definition: HURL: /vomit/ v. spew out {or} up, spit up, belch forth; regurgitate, throw up, gag, retch, heave, {US} keck, {Colloq} puke, return (food), {Brit} sick up, {Slang chiefly Australian} chunder, {US} barf, upchuck, toss (one's) cookies, spiff (one's) biscuits
My name is Cal Rose. I was abandoned by my parents as a child, and I’ve lived alone on the streets for years. The Order of Crows chose me as one of their enforcers, the Talons. But I rebelled, and now I protect the city and its people from those who would harm them.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Roaming the streets as I often do, I try to think of a place where Seline might be. Grayson said she was around here, but he didn’t know where exactly. Suddenly, the nighttime silence is broken by a bout of high-pitched laughter. I run in the direction of the sound, and find a woman in a red outfit carrying-
Seline. She has Seline. I run after her, but she’s surprisingly fast, and she knows the city better than I do. I lose the woman, and Seline with her. But at least now I have an idea of where to look.
Later that night, I go to find Grayson and tell him what I saw. He looks grim. “I know her. She’s the leader of the Harlequins. They’re mostly small-time thieves and vandals. But I guess with the Titans out of the way, they decided to…expand.”
“Well, they’re the ones after Seline. I need to find her.” I start to walk away.
“We need to find her.”
“No, you stay here. I don’t want you getting dragged into my fight.”
“This isn’t just your fight. This is what you’ve always tried to do, keep other out of the way. It’s noble, but you’ll end up getting killed.”
“Fine. But watch yourself.”
We leave, and I lead him to the part of town where I saw the woman carrying Seline.
“Well, I’m glad you took me along. I had found a building here that could have been a hideout, but I never found any indication that it was in use.”
“Show me where it is. That’s probably the place.”
“It’s just a couple streets over. Follow me.”
He takes us to a well-kept building in the small business district. It certainly doesn’t look like a hideout, but most hideouts don’t.
“Well, Cal, here we are. Do we go in, or wait and figure out a plan of attack?”
“Normally, I like to plan these things out, but if they have a hostage…”
“And the fact that it’s Seline makes it more urgent for you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.”
I walk in. We don’t have any time to waste. The inside of the building is surprisingly open, with well-tended paint on the walls. I turn to Grayson and ask, “are you sure this is the place?”
“Oh, I’m sure.” He points to a jagged hole in one of the walls half hidden behind a table. He walks over and pulls a door shut over it. It fits perfectly into the hole.
“You’re right, that’s not normal.”
“Come on, the hideout’s through here.” He reopens the hole, and we walk through and into a completely different space. It’s cold, dark and smells strongly of dampness. We proceed into a larger, slightly better-lit room. I hear a tiny pop, something no one without my senses would have detected. I pull Grayson out of the way just as the ceiling falls and hits the floor with a resounding crash.
“Whew, thanks Cal!”
Carefully, I enter the room again. No traps trigger this time, but unfortunately our surprise entrance is gone.
Three men, wearing white masks covering the right side of their faces, walk into the room and slowly approach us. We charge at them together. I hit one of them in the gut with my lowered shoulder. He flips all the way over my back and lands hard on the floor. He stays there, retching.
I can see Grayson smashing another attacker with a metal staff. The other guy’s doing pretty well. Meaning he’s not unconscious yet. But where did the third man go?
I get punched in the back of the neck. There he is. I sweep around low, and kick his legs out from under him. He falls over, right into an uppercut to his jaw. He’s out like a light. I turn back around and find Grayson standing over the still form of the last henchman. It looks like he broke the guy’s arm. Twice.
“Well, Cal, that wasn’t too hard.”
“The Harlequins don’t seem too good in combat. That bodes well for us.”
A cold, feminine voice rings out from the shadows. “Oh, does it? They may not have been your match, but me, I’m a different story.”
I'm really sorry about this being so late. Anyway I hope you enjoyed it!
Swedish Erotica had a certain image. For whatever reason, they wanted the girls in their scenes to wear lacy scarves. It was weird, but as it was explained to me, they wanted customers to see that scarf in a scene and make an immediate association in their head, “Oh, a scarf. This is Swedish Erotica.” It was like a hood ornament on a car: every car had its own design and it helped you know what kind of car it was.
Swedish Erotica thought that scarves were classy. I thought they were itchy and a pain in the ass to wear. I mean, in real life, who wears a scarf to bed? I can see keeping some article of clothing on — usually sweat socks. Ha! But even to be sexy, there are a lot cooler things to wear, like silky lingerie. But that was their signature and for as much as I asked for things here and there, removing the scarf was one thing on which they would not negotiate.
The more loops I did for Swedish Erotica, the more I became personally associated with scarves. People started to forget all the other girls in their loops who wore them, too. But I was doing so many scenes for them, I started being known in the industry and even among the fans as Miss Swedish Erotica. At one point, Swedish Erotica even gave me that title officially, like it was another beauty contest I had won. It was all good. They’d invite me to public appearances and things and introduce me as Miss Swedish Erotica, just like when I was Miss Hopewell Virginia. I don’t know how they came up with it. I don’t believe there was any official voting of any sort. It was a publicity stunt, which flattered me because they were saying, essentially, that I was now the face of their franchise. I was moving up in the world.
But the scarves — those damn scarves. I hated them. You’d go to a shoot and they’d have them lying around everywhere and would just throw one at me or the other girls. They’d been lying on the floor — dirty, dusty, covered in cum and whatever. They made me want to retch. As soon as I was handed one, I’d go to the bathroom and hand-wash it, then blow it dry before I’d let it touch my skin; otherwise I thought I was going to pick up some kind of disease. It was like being asked to wear someone else’s skanky underwear that was just fished out of a dumpster. They never washed those things on their own. It wasn’t like they were fancy or expensive or anything. For a buck or two they could have given us brand new ones for every scene; but no, they recycled them. Makeup, sweat, and cum, lots of dried cum. Maybe it was more noticeable when I wore one in a scene because mine were nice and clean and fluffy. I can be pretty anal sometimes. I may have been raised poor, but we were always big on cleanliness.
One time I was doing a phone-in radio appearance. I put my phone on speaker and started doing housework. When the station called, the first thing they asked me on the air was, “So, Seka, what are you doing right now,” expecting some sort of sexy answer. I, being slow on the uptake, opted for honesty. “I’m steam-cleaning my toilet right now.” They laughed hysterically and thought I was being funny. I wasn’t. Steam-cleaning toilets and hand-washing scarves: that’s how I roll.
"Inside Seka - The Platinum Princess of Porn" by Seka and Zukus Kery (c) 2013, BearManor Media
LC Verse Spider-Girl
Issue #12 "The Frightful Four"
The four villains begin to surround me as I slowly back against the wall. The pale faced man called Chameleon is the first to lunge at me with his knife raised. I swiftly dodge the flurry of strikes from his blade and land a hard punch on his cheek. He staggers back dazed then his legs buckle out from under him causing him to sprawl across the ground. "You're stronger than you look." Tentacle Terror states watching me amused, I see a blast of bright energy out of the corner of my eye and combat roll out of its way avoiding the projectile which flies past me. Turning my head I see Pulse with his hands radiating yellow energy. "Almost!" He growls angrily blasting two beams at me which I dodge nimbly, he curses frustrated preparing to fire again but I leap out the way only to feel something coil around my ankles. "You're not escaping this!" Tentacle Terror mocks swinging me into the wall with his metal arms. I grunt in pain whilst he lobs me through the air as I fire my webbing at the building swinging my way back towards the fight. Pulse blasts me with his energy beams and they explode off my side sending me falling to the ground. Pain shoots up my back whilst getting to my feet gritting my teeth, "This'll be fun(!)"
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Tentacle Terror lashes out with his arms but I web them to the ground swinging from them like monkey bars. One of his arms breaks free smacking into my side but I ignore the throbbing pain and swing my fist colliding it with his cheek. He immediately crumples to the ground unconscious and I land on his back turning to see the weary villains who watch me nervously, "Who's next?" I question looking at Pulse and Mysterio who turn to each other, they both nod their heads. Suddenly smoke creeps up my legs coiling around them like snakes, I try to shake free but the smoke seems to tighten its grip holding me in place. My eyes widen feeling the smoke shroud around my body squeezing my chest as I helplessly squirm unable to breathe. A scream builds up in my throat getting ready to cry out for help but a yellow beam of energy collides into my side charring it with heat, the force of the blast knocks me free from the smoke and I land on the floor seeing the smoke begin to dissipate. "You fool, I was suffocating her!" Mysterio yells angrily at Pulse who retorts, "I don't care!" The two begin to bicker allowing me to catch my breath and get to my feet. I fire my webbing at Pulse's chest hauling him into Mysterio. Pulse's head cracks off Mysterios fish bowl helmet and he falls to the ground knocked out from the impact. "Zimzalabim!" Mysterio says waving his hands around the air which glow an ominous purple aura, he lifts me off my feet as I illuminate purple and raises me into the air, he smacks me down off the ground and lifts me up to do so again.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
I grunt in pain whilst Mysterio chuckles smugly bringing his hands down, I immediately am thrown to the ground and lifted up again. However I luckily aim my wrist at him firing my webbing at his legs, it wraps around tying them tightly together and he collapses to the ground. The purple aura vanishes and I fall on my hands and knees. He begins to try and tear through my webbing but I get to my feet slamming my foot into his ribs angrily. He groans in pain clutching his side and then retches, a musky milk green fluid splats on the inside of his helmet and I gag. "Ew! Sorry that was a bit hard, still getting used to my own strength." I say awkwardly looking away, that's when I see Chameleon unconscious behind me clutching a pistol. He must've regained consciousness then tried to shoot me, did he pass out? I frown confused and that's when I see a hooded figure on the rooftop looking down at me, his black mask covered in a white spider emblem.
The Epstein files reveal the sordid truth behind this man's sick appetites. MAGA, behold your dear leader at his lowest leve and retch.
Rhymes with retch
“Vetch” is the worst name for a lovely, yet hardy wildflower. “Hairy vetch” might be worse, though. (It’s a real thing.)
Thanks to some spring rainstorms, we are still enjoying wildflowers in Sacramento. The vetch is maybe the most striking, adding a purple haze to the fields. (The California poppies are done, but they were absolutely divine in all their orange glory this year.)
Blazer, Poetry (thrifted). Dress, Farm Rio (thrifted). Shoes, Steve Madden. Necklace, Taneesi. Earrings and ring, vintage.
Holga 120N. Kodak Portra 160VC. 26 seconds exposure on bulb setting.
"God tried to teach Crow how to talk.
'Love,' said God. 'Say, Love.'
Crow gaped, and the white shark crashed into the sea
And went rolling downwards, discovering its own depth.
'No, no,' said God, 'Say Love. Now try it. L O V E.'
Crow gaped, and a bluefly, a tsetse, a mosquito
Zoomed out and down
To their sundry flesh-pots.
'A final try,' said God. 'Now, L O V E.'
Crow convulsed, gaped, retched and
Man's bodiless prodigious head
Bulbed out onto the earth, with swivelling eyes,
Jabbering protest –
And Crow retched again, before God could stop him.
And woman's vulva dropped over man's neck and tightened.
The two struggled together on the grass.
God struggled to part them, cursed, wept –
Crow flew guiltily off."
- Ted Hughes
'Crow's First Lesson'
Cedar Creek &Dam, Sturbridge, Massachusetts
Shortly after striking this pose, the Kingfisher brought up what seemed like a pellet, probably fish bones that were not digested.
Old Christmas is past,
Twelfth Night is the last,
And we bid you adieu,
Great joy to the new.
What a start to the 52 week photography challenge... a self portrait.
*retch*
Taking pictures of people is my least favourite part of photography, and photographing myself I like even less. Still, I tried to make the best of it and this is my offering for the week.
Seeing as tonight is Twelfth Night, when traditionally people take down their trimmings, I thought I'd do a bauble selfie. I have now taken everything down except my tree which I will dismantle tomorrow after work. The lights are on tonight for the last time :'(
My rule is: so long as everything is packed away by the end of Epiphany then the tree sprites won't come out to cause mischief. Although why they'd be hiding in a fake tree from Stephen H Smith's Garden Centre I've never quite understood. I'm not risking it though.
A Noel In Black.
The doors to the homeless shelter shut in ten minutes, but Caleb needed another drink. It was Christmas Eve 1970, and he was wandering the streets of Eureka, California in a tattered and filthy Santa suit, crimson hat perched atop his head, dirty beard pulled down around his neck, a streak of vomit running down his left leg.
When the Salvation Army gave him the costume, days ago—how many now? Three? Four?—it had been brand new and shiny clean, but he had gone AWOL as soon as he had begged up enough money for a good drunk. He couldn’t believe how easy it was to get money begging in a Santa Suit during the holidays, especially when people thought they were giving to the Salvation Army. Too bad, he thought, that the racket had to end tonight. Fuck it, he was headed to the nearest bar and had a pocket full of money.
Bells on bob-tail ring, making spirits bright. Oh what fun it is to sing a sleighing song tonight.
Finally managing to make eye contact with the simian faced bartender who was absent-mindedly pushing a dishtowel up and down a pint glass, Caleb waved a fiver in the air, a wry smile of what the fuck? on his face. Red and green Christmas tree lights flickered over the bottles and mirrors and off in the corner the Ghost of Christmas Past grinned its horrid smile. The bartender nodded acknowledgment and strutted over.
“Yeah? Whaddya want?”
“Beer and a whiskey.”
“What kinda beer? What kinda whiskey?”
“The cheapest.”
The bartender got him his drinks, took the twenty, and left his change in front of him on the bar.
Sipping the bitter medicine, Caleb noticed a woman a few stools down trying to draw his attention, a jet of blue smoke issuing from her cherry-red lips as she raised and lowered her thickly-penciled eyebrows. He could tell she had done her best to look good tonight: lots of eye makeup, newer, hipper-looking clothes, but he could see the age in her face, recognized her need like a bad smell. Battered, needy women gave off a stink of desperation he’d learned to recognize over the years. Those years since he’d been back from the war. He’d had his fair share of these types. Always good for a warm bed and a hot meal, but too crazy to spend any real time with.
“Hey there, Santa. Buy a girl a drink?”
“Sure thing, honey.” Caleb glanced at the barkeep. “Give the lady what she wants.”
She slid down next to him as the grim faced bartender mixed a rum and coke, speared a lime with a tiny sword and dropped it in the glass. “I’ve always had a thing for Santa,” she whispered. “Coming in late at night to punish the naughty and reward the nice.”
“Yeah, and what are you, darling? Naughty or nice?”
“I’ve always thought I was a little of both.”
“Ha. What’s your name, baby?”
“Sandra. They call me Sandy around here. But I think of myself as Sandra.”
“All right, Sandra. What’s your story?”
“Just a local girl, been in the same place too long. What about you, Santa? Don’t you gotta lot of work to do tonight?”
Caleb laughed, that deep, reassuring laugh he’d mastered over the years, to put people—women especially—at ease. They talked for a while. Then Caleb ordered a pitcher of beer and a couple more shots and they moved to a corner booth. Sandra talked on and on, chain smoking Salems while he drank his beer and sipped his whiskey, watching as the room began to spin in slow, psychedelic and nauseating circles.
“You’re awful quiet.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“How’d you get them scars on your neck?”
Caleb put his hand to his neck, let it drift down to the dirty fake beard, and pulled the knotted grey and black mess of hair over to cover his throat. And that wicked Ghost of Christmas Past with sunken eyes and yellow teeth whispered, “Tell her.” And so Caleb did.
“In the war.”
“You were over in ‘Nam, huh?”
“Yeah, two tours.”
“And then what? You come back to have these damn hippies spiting at you? I feel for you, sweetie. My daddy died in France fighting Nazis. Now my brother is in the Navy while this country goes to shit. You got these bastards like that dirty Abbey Hoffman saying to steal everything. And this Charlie Manson Family killing movie stars.” She laughed, shook her head and sipped her drink. “It’s enough to make you sick.”
They grew quiet. “So, you going to tell me about those scars, or what?”
“Well, I was a Kootchie Kootie. A tunnel rat. You know what that is?”
“Oh, yeah. You were one of those guys that go down in those gook holes?”
“Sure was. Infantry. 1st Reconnaissance Squadron.” He sighed, not wanting to get into it, but once he started it was hard to stop. “I was working three clicks west of Duc Pho in the Quang Ngai province. I was down in a tunnel. Just me, my .45 and a flash light. Looking out for booby traps and rats and spiders, and this animal. . . it came out of nowhere. Fucking attacked me. Just latched onto my shoulder and wouldn’t let go.”
“Oh, baby. You was attacked by an animal down in one of those tunnels?”
“Yeah. But when I killed it, when I shot it . . . ” He couldn’t tell her the rest. He couldn’t tell her how after he had shot that thing, the muzzle blast a blinding light, the report deafening, after he had filled that monster full of holes and watched it drop, it had looked just like a little girl. Just a tiny, raven-haired girl, all shot up and bloody, when moments ago it had been a beast: a mess of lurching fangs and drool.
His mouth moved up and down silently. He couldn’t say anything. Then, with an incredible effort, what he had managed to say was, “I think I brought something back with me. I . . . I . . . I don’t know.”
“You brought something back with you? You mean like that agent orange stuff, honey?”
“No, something different. Something, something. . .”
“What? In your head?”
He wanted to say, no, something in my blood: I brought back something in my blood that makes me a monster; but instead, he just nodded yes, his face a knot, visibly fighting to not break down in tears.
“Oh, baby, oh, baby, I understand.”
The room was twirling now at a breakneck speed. He was going to be sick. He pulled away from her and vomited on the floor.
“Son of a bitch!” the bartender shouted. “Who’s going to clean that up?”
Caleb hung over the edge of the booth, retching and dry heaving.
“Fuck you, Sam. He’s a veteran! He fought for this country, got attacked down in one of them gook holes. What the fuck you ever done?”
“I don’t care if he was on the beach at Normandy. Get him the fuck out of here!”
“You’re a piece of work. A real piece of work, know that, Sam? Where’s your sense of Christmas spirit?”
The bartender stomped up to her, eyes bulging, an accusing finger extended. “Get your cheap-whore ass out of here, bitch, and take your Santa Claus friend with you. Got me?” he grabbed her face in his hand and jerked her chin up so that he could look her in the eye. “This bar ain’t no place for you any more, Sandy. You make my customers sick. Everyone who’s wanted to has fucked you, and none of them’s too proud of it either. You'se don’t belong here. Find some other place to haunt, you cheap skank.” With that he tossed her head aside and stormed back behind the bar.
We wish you a merry Christmas. We wish you a merry Christmas. We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.
Sandra walked Caleb back to the motel room she rented by the month, holding him up the whole way while he leaned against her mumbling and pointing to ghosts she could not see. Once they were back at her room she helped him out of his Santa outfit and got him into the tub. In the heat of the steamy water he regained a semblance of consciousness, came back to himself. When he looked up he saw her through the mist, leaning in the doorway, staring at him. She had changed and was now wearing nothing but a silk kimono. He had to admit she didn’t look that bad.
“How you feeling, Santa?”
“Good. I feel . . .” he paused, unsure what to say, how he actually felt. “Good.”
She knelt down beside the tub, ran her finger over the surface of the water. “Thirsty?” she asked, holding up a tumbler of Scotch and water.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
Taking the glass into his hands, he took a sip. Handing it back to her she gave him a penetrating stare that he found hard to decipher and then leaned in to kiss him. She tasted of whiskey, cigarettes and peppermint. But it was good, the way she gently ran her tongue over his upper lip before she pulled away, and Caleb felt himself growing aroused.
“Now that you’re all cleaned up, why don’t we get you to bed.”
“Sounds good, baby.”
“Dry yourself off. I’ll be waiting.” With that she disappeared out the door.
He got up from the tub and dried himself the best he could with the cheap, tiny towels the motel provided. When he entered the room she was already on the bed, prone on her back and naked. She may have had a butter face but her body was to die for, and she knew how to flaunt it. He started towards her but she held up her hand, palm out toward him, and exclaimed, “Stop right there, mister. The Santa suit. Put it on.”
He gave her a questioning half grimace and then smiled. “You serious?”
“I told you: I gotta thing for Santa.”
Smirking, he pulled on the dirty jacket and set the conical hat atop his head. “Better?”
“Oh, yeah, baby. I’ve been so naughty. I need to be punished.”
With that she burst out in playful laughter, turned over onto all fours, and stuck her ass into the air, whispering over her shoulder, “Come and get it, Santa.”
He approached the bed and, still standing, he pulled himself into her. She let out a deep moan and he began to move, slowly. He was still drunk as hell and the room was spinning slightly but he could feel that primal urge within to rock and rotate. He began to lunge faster, and faster, and then, suddenly, it was happening again.
Fuck. No. No. No. It was happening again. He could feel himself beginning to change as he thrust against her. A part of him wanted to run away, to bolt through the door and into the night so that he wouldn’t hurt her. But another part of him wanted this. It felt good. It felt so fucking good to let go and let the animal inside him take over. Still pounding, Sandra moaning beneath him, he watched in wonder as his fingers—tightly gripping her bony hips—became claws and a thick mat of fur began to weave itself up his arms. Thrusting against her with all his might he lifted his face and began to howl as his mouth filled with sharp, gleaming fangs.
Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus lane!
Margaret Ashton was the manager of the Lone Pine motel. She had been across the street visiting with her daughter and grandson in their two-story, cookie-cutter house, and she was just walking back to the motel office when she heard the screaming in room 308. It was that cheap-tramp Sandy’s room. Margaret had been waiting for an excuse to evict her and marched up to the door, ready to throw her out, Christmas Eve or not. But as she grew closer and heard the urgency to the screams, the gut-wrenching terror of the squeals, she grew hesitant and stopped. Suddenly, without warning, the window shattered, showering her with glass and splintered wood. She fell back and slipped to the ground, watching in utter disbelief as the craziest thing she had ever seen in her life of fifty-six years came tumbling down atop her. It was a wolf. A huge monster of a wolf, with a snarling mouth of fangs dripping blood and drool. And it was wearing a red coat lined in white fur with a Santa cap perched atop its head.
From his bedroom window her grandson Tommy watched the entire thing.
Later that night homicide detectives would interview the little boy. Tearfully he would relate how he had seen his grandmother ripped to shreds by some kind of beast in a Santa suit. One of the uniformed officers standing idly in the background would then turn to his partner and whisper under his breath, “Looks like grandma got run over by a werewolf, walking home from his house Christmas Eve.”
God, the Easter Bunny, and the Ghost of Christmas Present watched as two-year-old Annabelle toddled out the door of her street-level apartment and onto the sidewalk, a thumb stuck in her mouth and dragging a Barbie doll along by the hair. God looked like the guy from the Dos Equis commercials: an incredibly good looking older gentleman with white hair, perfectly coifed, and a nicely trimmed beard, in a tuxedo. The Ghost of Christmas Present looked extremely bored and kept yawning. The Easter Bunny was an out-of-work writer who needed a shave, dressed in a pink bunny outfit.
“Cute kid,” the Easter Bunny commented.
“I wouldn’t get too attached,” the Ghost of Christmas Present replied, disinterestedly stifling a yawn.
Annabelle’s parents were fighting again and they could all hear their voices echoing out from the apartment.
“Just how many Quaaludes did you take? You can’t even look at me. Jesus, wake up, bitch, I’m talking to you.”
“Fuck off, Henry. You always were a bore.”
“You dumb cunt. I oughta slap the stupid right offa your face.”
When the wolf came galloping down the middle of the street in its blood soaked Santa suit the Easter Bunny turned to God and said, “You gotta be putting me on, man.”
God rolled his eyes.
The wolf grabbed the baby in its mouth and threw the child upward into the night sky where she hung suspended in the moonlight for a moment, tiny arms and legs kicking, and then tumbled down, landing on the street with a thud. The beast leapt at her, sinking its fangs into her neck and thrashing its head side to side until the tiny figure ceased to struggle and lay limp in its mouth.
“It’s probably for the best,” the Ghost of Christmas Past said.
“What? Why?” the Easter Bunny asked, scratching at the stubble on his face.
“You want to tell him, God? Or should I?”
God gestured with his hands, as if to say, “Go ahead. It’s all you.”
“If Annabelle had lived through this night, after being molested by her stepfather and stepbrother, she would have become a heroin addict by fourteen and a prostitute by fifteen. She then would have gotten picked up by a notorious serial killer who after raping her for days would finally kill her by trying to give her a lobotomy with a cordless drill. Her life taken like this, quickly and mercifully, is a blessing, a thing of joy. A Christmas miracle.”
“Is this true?” the Easter Bunny asked God.
God grinned and nodded.
“You don’t say much, do you?” the Easter Bunny asked God.
God just shrugged.
Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la la. ‘Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la la la la la.
Father Mulligan was cleaning up after midnight mass when he heard the click-clack of claws on the wooden floor. He paused, chalice in one hand, ciborium in the other, and listened.
“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing throughout the empty chapel. “Who’s there?”
Beneath the pounding of blood in his ears he distinctly heard panting, like that of a large animal. “Hello?”
Deep in the dark recess of the hall something stirred, moved, and then came slinking out of the shadows: a large creature walking on all fours, its eyes alight and flickering like yellow flames. The beast came forward slowly down the aisle, Santa hat drooping down one side of its head, a dead baby hung limply in its mouth. The wolf approached the altar and came so close that the priest could smell it, a feral odor of blood and musk. It spit the baby to the floor where it landed with a horrible smack.
But the priest didn’t run. He stood his ground, murmuring prayers beneath his breath. He knew why the beast was there, why this spawn of evil had come. It was here to punish him. Punish him for the things he had done to all those little boys. So many. First in Ireland when he had just been doing what had been done to him when he was an altar boy. Then, after coming to America, in Philadelphia, where for years the urban darkness of poverty and city life had let him run rampant. Not yet here in California, where he had been sent quickly by the diocese so as not to cause a scandal. But he had his eyes on a few of the boys in his congregation. Some of the poorer ones who he thought wouldn’t tell.
Seeing the monster here was a blessing and death would be a mercy. He fell to his knees, kissed his stole, and lifted his neck to the beast. But instead of taking him by the throat, the beast spun him around by the shoulders so that the priest fell face first to the floor. With one quick jerking motion the monster shredded the priest’s pants and mounted him. The priest cried out in pain and surprise as the wolf forcibly entered him and warm blood began to trickle down his leg.
God, the Easter Bunny and the Ghost of Christmas Present stood at the back of the chapel watching. The Easter Bunny had taken off his hood of rabbit ears and was puffing on an e-cigarette and furiously tapping away on an iPad mini. “Been blogging about this whole thing, and, yeah, a lot of people see that as offensive. I mean, what the fuck? You got a werewolf dressed like Santa Claus raping a child molesting priest on Christmas Eve?”
The Ghost of Christmas Present laughed heartily. “Well, I hate to say I told you so, but . . .”
“You got nothing to say about this, God?” the Easter Bunny asked, momentarily looking away from his iPad.
God tilted his head to the left, his thin lips bending into a sad frown, and, raising his eyebrows in an, “Oh, well,” manner, shrugged again.
Joy to the world, the Lord has come. Let Earth receive her king!
Gravy Brain Jane was out of her mind on LSD and had nowhere to go. She had a thousand tabs of purple sunshine on her but the connect had never shown and wasn’t answering the phone. Exasperated and befuddled, her vision a swirling cyclone of light and darkness, she stumbled from the Greyhound Station to a small clearing in a copse of woods. She sat leaning against a tree, the branches dripping and melting around her, the sky a miasma of spiraling stars and galaxies. She giggled and mumbled, “No sense makes sense,” to herself.
Charlie had sent a message from prison that she should deliver the acid here. If Charlie said it would work out, it would work out. She was sure of that. She had thought the other passengers on the bus would have been startled and scared by the X that Sandy and Squeaky had helped her burn into her forehead with hot bobby pins, but no one had noticed at all.
The Easter Bunny, who wasn’t even wearing his rabbit outfit anymore, and was now just dressed in his usual black jeans and t-shirt, was pacing back and forth irritably. He turned to the Ghost of Christmas Present and asked, slightly argumentatively, “Well, where’s God?”
“Oh, he couldn’t make it. Had a concert to catch.”
“A concert? What are you talking about?”
“Well, it was Skynard and you know how he loves Free Bird.”
“Typical.”
Gravy Brain Jane giggled when she saw the beast slowly creeping towards her. She had been taught to love coyotes when the family was in the desert of Death Valley. Back on the ranch Charlie had taught them to break down the final walls society imposed on them by having them fellate the stray dogs.
“Hey there, beautiful,” she said. The wolf just stared at her with its unblinking yellow eyes.
From their glimmer and spark she knew just what the creature wanted. It wanted what all men want and she had been taught the ways of a free love society. Giggling she squirmed from her panties and lifted her skirt with a vacant grin. She knew that in love there is no wrong. That submission is a gift and that you should never learn not to love. Charlie had taught her well.
She spread her legs, exposing herself, and the beast crept up to her and lowered its snout to her and began to lap at her in quick, greedy, licks. She gripped his ears tight, her head thrown back, and thought about how groovy and sexy it was to be pleasured by the beast, to have death and life so close, to lay your hands upon the monster and be free in love. As she bucked and lurched and felt herself climax she thought about how the Son of Man had taught her that death is only another orgasm, that everything in the universe is in and out and in and out in a cosmic orgy, babies coming out, galaxies sinking into black holes, knives plunging in, blood pouring out. Wow! Talk about the Big Bang!
The beast crawled atop her and slipped itself into her. When it shuddered and released itself inside her she knew within her heart that she would be with child. This was a happy moment. A glorious moment in time. Another Christmas miracle. Oh, joyous night. She would name this child Stewart, Stewart Kirby, after her grandfather.
Afterwards, the beast lay against her, spent. She stroked its fur with her nails and gently kissed its blood drenched snout. In this way the beast kept the girl warm through the coldest hours of the night.
Silent Night. Holy Night. All is calm. All is bright.
Free in the moonlight as snow began to fall, bathed in the stink of congealing human blood, the taste of flesh and woman fresh on its lips and tongue, the lycanthrope ran, the stars above him a smear of spilled milk, the moon a cataract eye aglow in malignancy.
On the First Day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . .
Caleb awoke in the morning naked and freezing, enveloped in the scent of the Douglas fir and redwood. He shivered and looked about. Snow was falling heavily, blanketing the earth in white. Beside him lay his tattered Santa costume, by some miracle the hat still clung to his head.
He glanced above the towering tree tops to the shelter of the sky and saw there a light both majestic and bizarre. Seemingly fake, like a bad special effect from a cheap television show. And in that glaring gleam of white, he saw a black figure descend: The Ghost of Christmas Future who spoke in a deep and sultry voice while extending out a hand, “Do you wish to come with me?”
In his mind all he could hear was Bing Crosby crooning I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas, and a million worlds passed before his eyes. Birthday cakes with only a few candles to blow out. His mother’s smile as she tugged on thread, sewing patches on a Cub Scout sash. Playing catch with his dad who bought him that special glove for little league and would oil it with him in the falling sun of the suburban evening. Watching Kennedy’s skull explode on television, Jackie screeching and trying desperately to crawl away. The Howdy Doodie show. Lee Harvey Oswald grimacing in pain and turning as Ruby put a bullet in his side. That gnarled old apple tree in the backyard, how that ancient tree would fill with tiny white blossoms in the spring so that you could not tell how old and bent it really was, its age hidden in its blooming. How those tiny petals fell in early summer, glistening in the amber light, a shimmering rain of flowers cascading down and lying white as snow on the ground. Sweat streaming down his brow as he pushed a lawnmower, that smell of fresh-cut grass, such a vibrant green it made his head hurt. Behind the baseball dugout with Betty Connors on a warm summer night: his first kiss. How she had moved away soon after and he had never seen her again. His draft card: that plain and innocuous envelope of a pale yellow color that they’d all dreaded and all expected. Telling his father, “Guess I’m going to war, pops.” And his father just nodding back stoically. His gal Sally, with her beehive hairdo, who wouldn’t let him fuck her no matter how hard he begged and pleaded, telling her he didn’t want to go to war a virgin. The ancient apple tree in autumn, loaded with ripe fruit. The bumpy ride over the Pacific in a military transport plane. The Vietnamese whore who spread her legs for a single American dollar. Paddy fields burned and incinerated so that no water stood within them and the rice stalks withered. January 1968. Tet: The New Year, a time to worship ancestors. An intricate barrage of hellfire. Medivac choppers stuffed with bloody men and boys. Fire fights, flares illuminating the night, the thunder of mortars and sparks of muzzle flash. A landscape of smoke and exploding ordinances. Those mornings when the bombers flew in and the ground shook like jelly. Seeing men he knew dancing and screaming in flames. Splintered, broken trees, smoke billowing in the distance. The Pickle Switch and canisters of napalm. VC bodies dressed in black lying in horrible piles. A rifle on the ground with a stream of ammunition dripping out of it. “I dare you to pick up that dead man’s gun.” “Yeah, right.” The tunnels. And the idea of winter, just the concept of it in that hot, hot land where all is hidden from you, taken, and there is nothing to believe in or hope for, but you imagine that tree back home nonetheless, barren and without leaves and fruit, draped in snow and frozen. The way the men whispered when they found a dead body, till all you hear is whispers of body, body, body. Then the beast appears who is really only a little girl. How could you have thought that a little girl was a monster? There was no monster, just a little girl, you made everything else up. But now there is a monster, just as sure as there are ghosts, an Easter Bunny and a God. It’s you. You’re the monster. You’re the beast. And you think to yourself, “What have I done? What did I do?” Then, as you face this ultimate truth, the cold takes you. And when would spring come again? Certainly not in this lifetime, and not on this earth. So, “Yes,” you say to the cold and the winter. To the Ghost of Christmas Future who holds nothing forth but death. “Yes. Take me. Just take me away and let me be free.” An affirmation to end the rest of your negations.
And you let go of that aching, awful, agonizing pain of being a man of flesh and blood, the cold slowing down your heart, and give in to death.
And as you slip away, into the embrace of the Ghost of Christmas Future, you wonder, “Was it real? Was any of it real at all?”
And in the heavens a laughing God finally breaks his silence and answers: “There is no such thing as real. It’s all just a dream within a dream.”
Story written by: HumboldtLycanthrope
Samantha: I refuse to be any part of this.
Westina laughs and says, "You do remember that your powers will weaken if you fail to collaborate. Who will be there to protect your dear Darren and those other retched mortals? Your little Tabitha can't possibly protect the whole family from the Great Queen. You know how she disapproves of you."
Samantha knew there was no choice but to cooperate.
More to follow...
*
*
*
This story may be a bit of a stretch, but I wanted to do a Halloween diorama with my favorite witch dolls. The rubber band looks a bit bad, but does hold her hair so nicely in place that I am leaving it :)
What If Money Was No Object? - Alan Watts
Video by Tragedy & Hope
www.youtube.com/watch?v=khOaAHK7efc
SCRIPT - What If Money Was No Object? - Audio of Alan Watts
genius.com/Alan-watts-what-if-money-was-no-object-annotated
What do you desire? What makes you itch? What sort of a situation would you like?
Let’s suppose, I do this often in vocational guidance of students, they come to me and say, well, "we’re getting out of college and we have the faintest idea what we want to do". So I always ask the question, "what would you like to do if money were no object? How would you really enjoy spending your life?"
Well, it’s so amazing as a result of our kind of educational system, crowds of students say well, we’d like to be painters, we’d like to be poets, we’d like to be writers, but as everybody knows you can’t earn any money that way. Or another person says well, I’d like to live an out-of-doors life and ride horses. I said you want to teach in a riding school? Let’s go through with it. What do you want to do? When we finally got down to something, which the individual says he really wants to do, I will say to him, you do that and forget the money, because, if you say that getting the money is the most important thing, you will spend your life completely wasting your time. You’ll be doing things you don’t like doing in order to go on living, that is to go on doing things you don’t like doing, which is stupid. Better to have a short life that is full of what you like doing than a long life spent in a miserable way. And after all, if you do really like what you’re doing, it doesn’t matter what it is, you can eventually turn it – you could eventually become a master of it. It’s the only way to become a master of something, to be really with it. And then you’ll be able to get a good fee for whatever it is. So don’t worry too much. That’s everybody is – somebody is interested in everything, anything you can be interested in, you will find others will. But it’s absolutely stupid to spend your time doing things you don’t like, in order to go on spending things you don’t like, doing things you don’t like and to teach our children to follow in the same track. See what we are doing, is we’re bringing up children and educating to live the same sort of lifes we are living. In order that they may justify themselves and find satisfaction in life by bringing up their children to bring up their children to do the same thing, so it’s all retch, and no vomit it never gets there. And so, therefore, it’s so important
to consider this question: What do I desire?
Please visit my blog at: alanwshapiro.blogspot.com
My Behance Gallery at: www.behance.net/alanwshapiro/frame
My twitter stream: twitter.com/#!/alansphotos
Alan Shapiro Photography on Facebook: [Facebook me]
Blogged on National Geographic - Intelligent Travel
Miao (minority) village festival, near Kaili, Guizhou, China, 2000. Scan of a print on which I had to do quite a lot of dodging around the eyes.
The festival takes place once every 13 years. It includes a parade of girls/young women displaying for marriage (in an incessant circle over 3 days to lusheng music and drunken mothers), and honouring of ancestors. It ended in normal fashion in these parts, with a men's basketball game.
This is a picture from the procession the ladies here are watching. The girl didn't stop for this portrait. The elaborate headdresses were made of tin or silver, depending on what could be afforded by an individual family, and were topped with buffalo horns (not visible!).
The 2007 Lonely Planet China mentions (P681) a 'fertility festival' that takes place every 13 years around here. I wonder if this is it ? If so, the next one should be in 2013.
I got here by chance after deciding to follow a man who did the Asian drop-hand sign towards me by a roadside a few miles outside Kaili. 'Come here', he signalled. I did. I followed him for an hour or two along tracks in order to find out why. It just felt as though he must have had a good reason. The reason become obvious when banners became visible over the track near the entrance to his village: a festival. He invited me for dinner in his hut of course but I immediately retched at the overpowering fish smells inside and had to politely exit ... to take a few photos in the open air and run away from the drunken mothers and their hootch.
Most of the girls in the parade wore more than one jumper under their traditional costumes - it was cold, rainy and misty, they sniffled a lot and raised barely a smile over the 3 days. Wonderful.
The Rhodes to Symi "Flying Zeus" hydrofoil arrives in Ano Symi Harbour on 14th June 1992.
The vessel, which looks like something out of "Stingray" is a Kometa, one of 39 built in Soviet Georgia between 1962 and 1992. Another 86 were built in Feodosiya shipyard between 1964-1981. They were exported to Greece, China, Poland, Yugoslavia, East Germany, Thailand, Albania, and Italy. At the time of posting they are still in operation in some countries.
Sadly, my first experience of travelling on one was not great. We'd sailed from Mandraki Harbour on Rhodes earlier in the day in conditions which could be described as "lumpy". As soon as the ship started flying on its fins, it became extremely "lively" and very soon the packed glass-covered passenger compartment echoed to the sound of mass retching. Fortunately the journey back was rather less volatile!
Minolta Dynax 5000i scanned from a Fujichrome 50 slide
gah. what a morning. Mina (smee/sick cat) started dry retching and hasnt eaten much in 48 hours. Phoned the vet, brought her in..making the tough call on whether to put her down. The vet said she's not in pain. She got a strong antibiotic shot and 5 days of tablets. I dont think she'll last that long but it didnt seem right putting her down today when the antibiotics might perk her up a bit. Many tears but she's still chatty..just incredibly thin. I wanted her in todays shot but after having the thermometer shoved up her bum, there's no way to lure her out of her little 'house'. Nuh uh. That cat is going to be sitting down for a while...just in case. Anyway...feel emotionally drained so you get a not-any-effort shot.
Oh to top it off. My other cat vom'd everywhere this morning and i ended up slipping barefoot in it. NICE.
gah. View On Black
This is actually a silverfish. I never thought they were particularly interesting, but up close... almost(!) pretty. The immediate ancestor of silverfish is around 400 Million years old - making them one of the oldest animals on the planet. They can live for about 8 years. Longer than some dogs. So ponder that before you squish. I didn't know they had scales till I looked close. They serve the same purpose as scales on a butterfly wing. They help them escape from predators by making them slippery since the scales shed when anything grabs on (like a spider web). 4.5x magnification. Mitutoyo 2.5 QV on ED Nikkor 180mm. 400 shots in Zerene Stacker. Too many.
and so it goes... and so it goes...
to see you smile so crookedly...
tongue tied and full of spite...
you old retched tart...
goodnight...
This is a shot from several years ago... i was missing my old 10-20 and looking at some pics that i took with her... i think it may be time to rekindle a relationship, it was so much fun being together:)... eBay here I come...
busy day... see y'all in the streams soon...
There are some things in my life that I regret:
1) Telling my aging father that he had to wear oven mitts when he was at the keyboard to avoid getting a computer virus.
2) Making loud retching noises in the theater during the concluding scenes of "Titanic."
2a) ...and Love Story...
2b)...and Terms of Endearment...
3) Attempting to convince a second hand book store owner that I had an inoperable brain tumor so he would give me a discount on the pile of Man from UNCLE and Tarzan books I wanted to purchase.
4) Going to a Halloween party in 1983 as a James Dean AFTER the car crash, when it was apparent I was the only one who thought it was funny, and subsequently totally blowing my one and only chance with the babe from 4C who turned out to be a major James Dean fan. Who knew?
5) ...okay...most of 1983.
But I don't regret a stolen second spent in this automotive graveyard in a little town outside of Edmonton.
That's where this sweetie is currently waiting for a new owner to make her shine again...or the wrecking ball.
Still working hard on The Novel. Into the second draft...and I SHOULD be working on it now...but...y'know.
Nothing beats a phone call from your long time friend asking for "a favor"...except a favor in 30° weather.
My long time friend Colt has been trying to sell his one of a kind custom fully built acura TL (see Colt's TL set). He struggled with finding someone wanting such a VIP style car in our retched town, but eventually found a willing candidate to trade for a sport bike, the all black 04 honda cbr 600rr.
Colt doesn't ride, (he's more of a 500hp v8 guy) but jumped at the opportunity to sell something a little bit more liquid, so he got the car to 'trade' value, removing his work vs-xx rims, bodykit, and other small customized pieces.
While they were working on the title work, I snuck the bike behind a church and tried to grab a few shots. 2pm isn't exactly my favorite time to shoot but i made it work. I forgot my tripod and my g/f drove my flashes / camera behind me so I just had to make due.
Shots were done mainly with the tamron 17-50 f2.8 with an nd8 filter set in AEB mode. The first shot was set to sync at 1/200 and fire the flashes (3 staggered 420ez's @ full power), while the second shot was set to 1/500ish to get the sky nice and dark. If i would've had a tripod it would've been much easier but they layered nicely. A few other edits were done once behind the computer but I really liked how this set turned out, as I'm afraid to shoot black cars / bikes and also shoot at such a 'bad' time of day.
I called this set "face your fears" because of the many obstacles on different levels it entailed...riding someone else's bike for one, riding it in freezing weather, shooting mid day, trying to light up a black vehicle, and the headaches we entail while dealing with purchasing or trading a new vehicle.
hope you all enjoy!
A paper wasp - Not a Yellow Jacket! They look awfully similar, almost. These are smaller and less agressive. Orange antennae instead of black. Schneider Componon-S 50mm at 2x mag (on bellows reversed) F5.
'the end of the road' ;)
I translated last night's diary entry for you:
‘Dear Diary. Today was a good flickr day. After breakfast, I posted my picture, Jacob’s Ladder , and sat back, with a coffee and Auny Peggy’s Chocolate Cake, to enjoy some photo-based banter. Many of my flickr friends and contacts called and an enjoyable day of commenting began. A new verb, "to straphaggle" was introduced into the English language, and I also found out about crepuscular rays and the yellow rumped warbler. I saw some outrageously good photographs and listened to some good songs
Later on, I was catching up on Glee with Gwϊon and Siwan, when I realised that my knee was a bit sore for the first time in days. So, on retiring, I decided to take a couple of painkillers to help me sleep. Foolishly, I decided to swallow those painkillers without water, and found myself starting to choke! Not being able to move, I thumped on the bathroom floor, hoping that Rhian would hear me downstairs. Thankfully, she arrived and quickly and expertly applied the ‘Heimlich –thump-on-back-i-don’t-know-what-i’m-doing-Maneuver’. This, along with much spluttering, retching, and gagging allowed those naughty tablets to pop out.
Siwan, who was still awake, rushed into the bathroom to see what was happening. On being told, she looked at me and muttered, ‘Where was your common sense, idiot!’ in a (female) dismissive tone that was way beyond her 9 years, before dissolving into a much more characteristic Siwi-fit-of-giggles.
I am glad, Diary, that I have a lovely wife who knows what to do at the right time, that my children have the greatest respect for me and that I have so many lovely Flickr friends.
Nos da, Dyddiadur’
Dark clouds over Chambois in the Falaise Pocket - August 16, 2014
It’s often the simplest postcards that reveal the most shocking stories. This is true of Chambois.
Our postcard shows the old keep or ‘donjon’, once part of a medieval fortress that now houses nothing more ferocious than a loft of lethargic pigeons.
The donjon in Chambois, Orne, Normandy
The photo and the postcard do not match as neatly as we usually manage for our ‘then and now’ shots, probably because we had just visited the memorial at Montormel and what we had learned left us shaken.
Making the Falaise Pocket in 1944
Montormel memorial was recommended to us as the best WW2 museum in Normandy. We didn’t question why, but then we didn’t know a lot about WW2 and nothing about the Falaise pocket.
It is up on a hill, reached though some of the prettiest roads in the Orne and on that day there were few visitors. We looked at various exhibits; interested, but not particularly comprehending.
On reaching a large room with a circle of windows overlooking the valley below, a guide kindly set the presentation to English and blinds slowly shut out the view.
Before us on a contoured map inch by inch the story of the Falaise Pocket in August 1944 was revealed.
Closing the Pocket
Arrows of light showed where British, Canadian and Polish forces fought to meet up with the Americans, funnelling the German army into a smaller and smaller area. Fighting was bitter, to say they met ‘resistance’ is an understatement.
All through these battles Allied aircraft carried out ‘strategic bombing’. Mistakes were made. In one story of many we heard how initially the First Canadian Army used yellow smoke to identify their positions while the bombers used yellow to mark targets. It was not clear how many lives were lost.
Enemy circled, a gap to close
The Western Allied forces managed to encircle the Pocket on 19th August trapping thousands. Battleground decisions possibly let a few thousand escape, a few gaps remained.
After clearing the ‘Falaise Pocket’ small town of Chambois of German soldiers, the 8th and 9th Polish battalions head for ‘Hill 262’, Montormel. The area could easily become an escape route for the German Army who were quickly commanded to eliminate the Poles. Outnumbered but determined, the Poles fought under terrible conditions to bravely hold back thousands from escaping.
On 21st August the Pocket was finally sealed with 50,000 German soldiers inside and the battle for Normandy turned forever in the Allies favour.
More than manoeuvres
The presentation concluded. It was interesting, a piece of history we had not known, but told in stark facts we were history voyeurs at another WW2 shrine.
As the blinds drew back our guide joined us. Looking out of the window at miles of Normandy countryside he pointed out key features from the presentation.
Then he said. ‘After the battle for months huge black clouds filled the sky above the Falaise Pocket, do you know what they were?” We suggested clouds of smoke as the valley was cleared of war damage.
No. “the black clouds were millions of flies that lived on the debris of humanity and animals left after the carnage of battle”.
He drew our attention to photographs around the room then gently explained the human cost of freedom.
The price of freedom
He told us how the valley was scarred with with thousands of dead humans, dead military horses, dead farm animals. Broken machinery and death blocked the roads. As the Allies advanced they had to clamber over mangled machinery and lifeless soldiers, the stench of old corpses making them retch.
We heard how before June 1944 the region had been seen as ‘safe’ by French citizens; hundreds moved from the apparent danger of Paris to the valley, only to find themselves in the middle of a terrible battle.
It took more than 20 years to clear away the dead, the broken machinery, the destroyed villages and the horror of the Falaise Pocket. For years the soil was unusable, poisoned.
A terrible history not far from the surface
News items still appear from time to time as a farmer unwittingly unearth a body. They are not always reported. It is still illegal to ‘dig’ for history in this Orne valley.
As we left Montormel and drove down the hill into the valley to Chambois sunlight warmed green leaves, the sky was blue, Normandy at peace. We drove in silence.
www.porsche.com/international/models/911/carrera-models/9...
Anyone who dreams of a Porsche usually has an image in their mind: the 911 has been the epitome of an exciting, powerful sports car with day-to-day usability for 60 years. Take a seat behind the wheel of the new 911 and become part of a unique community.
www.motortrend.com/reviews/2022-porsche-911-carrera-gts-f...
Porsche presently offers 21 available or imminently available variants of the 992-series 911, from the least expensive Carrera to the priciest Turbo S. It's enough to confuse even avowed Porschephiles and to spur cynics to roll their eyes. This fast-food-like approach dishes out calories incrementally, a proven strategy to entice buyers of varying means and to squeeze every available cent from their accounts. But cynicism melts away when you drive the new 2022 Porsche 911 Carrera GTS.
Regular or Medium Size?
The 2022 porsche 911 Carrera GTS is the 911 lineup's middle child, but that's no slight. Since the badge's arrival as a fixture in the range a little more than a decade ago, Porsche has positioned the GTS between the Carrera S and GT3 (and Turbo) in performance and price. The simplest way to think of it is as a Carrera S with every must-have performance option, for less money than you pay by adding them à la carte. The kicker: Not all its hardware is available on lesser versions, making it wallet clickbait for Carrera shoppers who retch at the notion of not having their hands on the most capable offering, whether they need it or not.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Porsche_911
The Carrera name was reintroduced from the 356 Carrera which had itself been named after Porsche's class victories in the Carrera Panamericana races in Mexico in the 1950s.
Special car
Explore #425 08/20/09
Walt Disney World, Disney's Hollywood Studios - 08/10/09
Signage at the entrance to DHS.
That's not the reason I chose this photo for today...after spending most of the night at the ER with hubby who unambiguously broke his arm chasing a spider from the ceiling. File this one in the "things you know better than" file for future reference. It's always better not to get caught up in the heat of the chase and step up on a chair before making sure it is absolutely secure when trying to obliterate a spider stationed squarely over the bed before retiring for the evening.
I won't go off on the healthcare system, but after spending 5 hours in the ER with a woman retching into a trash can and a 6-week old baby who had "chest congestion" and not being able to drive my husband to the hospital with the fracture unit and having him transported via ambulance, but I could...
Surgery was this afternoon, he comes home tomorrow, and the bottom line is I didn't get to anybody's photos today and tomorrow looks sort of iffy. I will get caught up, but it may not be for a day or two.
Right now, after taking care of parrots, mopping floors, and doing laundry, I'm off to what I hope will be more than 3.5 hours of sleep....
...the spider is still at large.
After retching to the horrible, horrible, horrible smells from some sort of horrible place atop the observation tower at the falls that give this fine city it's name, we made our way to the bridge and heard a horn in the distance. Could it be? A D&I road train? The very trains that elluded DK and I on our trip not one month previous?! Yes!
A bona-fide chase wasn't in the cards (we still had 350 mlies to go to get to Rapid City), but there was no harm in banging out a few shots along a creative route back to I-90.
You can't see them, but, the greatest wife in the world, Emily is riding shotgun, and my boys, Berk (3) and Lucas (2) are sitting in the middle, taking pictures with their toy cameras through the open windows.
The Dakota & Iowa is one of two railroads through town owned by a gravel / stone / construction aggregates concern, the smaller Ellis & Eastern being the other. The D&I's mainline was badly damaged by flash flooding last month (which happened the night DK and I arrived to foam), which knocked out a dozen miles of track. Glad to see they were up and running again.