Sexy Ugly Feminine Feet
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No and when's the last time you ever drove anything.....
maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Pine%20Lake/233/114/28
Stuff:
[ContraptioN] Death's Smile mask *???* mouth
DRDA - Post apocalyptic Prostethic
[ht:apparel] the amputator 4:3 (NEW)
DE Designs - Halter Laceup Corset
PFC~Raven Pauldron
The Forge Weld Goggles
DRD Nerd Googles
Lode Head Feathers
[ht:apparel] shinguard - rust
post apocalytpic nerd - neckwrap red
Little Tree Necklace
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MASK & MACHETTE: Diaboli Design - J-13 MASK
AMPUTATION BANDAGE: Fireheart Amputation Bandage
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CORPSES: [ContraptioN] Props: Wrapped Corpse
Critical mass I pray
Contagion of the feeble mind
Critical mass I pray
Contamination deified
Bludgeon abortion
Lethal amputation
Onslaught of torment
Embrace the offering
Necrotic flesh
Design of tainted surgery
Cold steel blade
Neutralize mortality
Christen me with razor blades
Away from me
Your God drink my holy wine
My tears of pain
Away you rot?
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XOXO Cyborg Mesh Eye
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A Fantastical Notion - Energy Flecks
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@ Tokyo Zero on the 10th !!
♥ Includes left and right, male and female UNRIGGED!!
♥ With color HUD
♥Copy MOD
10/23/20...chainsaws and nap time for Bonzo today...no amputations...split rail now a third of itself...what to do...burn it on down. Blurry and full of worry, the Tufted Titmouse landed within a meter...no time to correct settings...too slow a shutter...but the low ISO makes for dreamy.😉
After posting this I gave my title some thought..."Here I am". I know why I used it as regards the Titmouse...then it came to me...what if Jesus Christ appeared before you or me and said "Here I am"...would we...could we..drop all the trappings of a material world and follow...right then...what would we do...lock the door...hide away...or answer...give me an hour...give me a day...a week...I need to do this and that...something to ponder.
For some reason, I decided to look for Guadacanal Diary...a band I used to like...found this song...never heard it...but it was a perfect fit. Check it out if you have time "Little Birds"
www.youtube.com/watch?v=CxUXuiYpN8o
Please do not use without my explicit permission
© All Rights Reserved
Walter C Snyder
amputation, phantom pains, the body remembers. Cells awash in an inflammatory stew. Which is worse, the injury or the souvenirs? How do we sweep up bits of battered used-to-be's ?
* words and image are copyrighted ©Anne Silver Mondinot. all rights reserved.
"Just bite on this piece of leather and bear it..."
A sawbones was a surgeon. An evocative term that calls to mind the saws that 19th-century surgeons used to perform amputations. "Sawbones" quickly became an established member of the English language and was used by such authors as H. G. Wells, Mark Twain, and Robert Louis Stevenson.
"Amputated Fern"
Les Gorges de la Diozaz, Vallée de Chamonix (Hte Savoie)
Website : www.fluidr.com/photos/pat21
www.flickriver.com/photos/pat21/sets/
"Copyright © – Patrick Bouchenard
The reproduction, publication, modification, transmission or exploitation of any work contained here in for any use, personal or commercial, without my prior written permission is strictly prohibited. All rights reserved."
Not for the faint hearted.
Self-surgery is the act of performing a surgical procedure on oneself. It can be an act taken in extreme circumstances out of necessity, an attempt to avoid embarrassment, legal action, or financial costs, or a rare manifestation of a psychological disorder.
Yubitsume (指詰め, "finger shortening") or otoshimae is a Japanese ritual to atone for offences to another, a way to be punished or to show sincere apology and remorse to another, by means of amputating portions of one's own little finger.
- - - And just for interest it turns out that "Rocialle" that made some of my kitchenware also make surgical instruments including scalpels.
This photograph was taken in 2008 at the Royal Australian Navy's Heritage Centre at Garden Island, Sydney.
It had no curatorial plaque, but the nameplate indicates that it was made by Arnold & Sons, a British surgical instrument maker.
The handles appear to be cross hatched ebony. The long bladed knives at the front are Liston knives; their use is for cutting through muscle during amputation. They were developed by a Crimean War (1854 - 1856) surgeon, Dr. Liston. This dates the kit as being from during or after that period. The work of Joseph Lister (different spelling) in 1867 led to revelations that porous material should not be used for the manufacture of handles on surgical instruments due to their propensity to harbour germs. Hence this kit can be safely dated between 1854 and 1870.
The whole kit is contained in a chest made from mahogany with brass reinforcements.
Garden Island contains the RAN's Fleet Base East and the Garden Island Dockyard and as such there is restricted public access only to a segregated area on the North-eastern tip of the Island. Access is achieved by taking the Watson's Bay ferry from Circular Quay, which stops at Garden Island after a 6-minute trip around the Sydney Opera House.
Entry to the museum style gallery is free for kids, and costs $5 for Adults.
The Gallery has a large display which is drawn from some 300,000 artifacts which the RAN holds in its extensive archives which are otherwise unavailable for public viewing - so whatever goes on display must of necessity be a carefully chosen sample.
I play Self-Portraits since i began seriously Photographie. This is a big part of my job. And this part really helps me, it's a very good thérapie. if you like it, that's great, if you hate it, i don't give a shit. i'll keep on' play Photographics Self-Portraits to my death. ThanX. [GreG]
She's wondering
how many women are walking
around this world
feeling the tingling of
their amputated wing
remembering
what it was
to fly
to sing.
-Andrea Gibson
The face of Auguste Rodin's sculpture "Draped Torso of The Age of Bronze" at Musée Rodin, Paris, France.
According to the museum's web site "this is a partial reworking of 'The Age of Bronze' [statue by Auguste Rodin], severed at the waist and with arms removed. It is draped in the manner of Virgins, but is nevertheless a man, and the effect of the drapery around his face, which is usually employed with female models, produces a certain sense of strangeness. The amputation of the arms, concealed by a real piece of fabric dipped in plaster, is not devoid of violence. It deprives the statue of the slightest gesture and turns it into a sort of icon. The tear in the fabric to the side of the forehead reveals a gash, the trace of a wound incurred by this vanquished warrior."
Image © B. Bora Bali & B³ Photography, All Rights Reserved.
Sculpture Description Text © Musée Rodin.
Poor thing had lost a front leg, but was otherwise quite sprightly! Helps to still have another 5 of course!
Greenfields NR - Shropshire
“Junior” is a great horned owl that lives in the Barbara J. Mapp Aviary Education Center at Radnor Lake. In 2003 Junior was struck by a car, probably while eating road-kill, and by the time he was found his badly damage wing was also severely infected and had to be amputated at the shoulder.
Barbara J. Mapp Aviary Education Center, Radnor Lake State Natural Area, Nashville, Tennessee, USA. March 21, 2015.
I am sorry if this is a disturbing shot. I don't mean it to be. It's actually hopeful.
This past week, the vet found that the swelling of Bluelberry's left hind paw was cancerous. The only thing they could do was to amputate the leg. We have been pretty distressed, but though it looks grim, he has had NO swelling at all, and from the first day of recovery, he has been able to stand! He is eating well, and is already bored with his 2 weeks of confinement. He sits with us when we are on the couch, but he is NOT a fan of being in the big Great Dane size cage! Imagine that. He will get his staples out in two weeks as well.
Thank you ALL for your kind thoughts sent his way!
bilateral amputation
is mostly the result of
Diabetes Mellitus,
Peripheral vascular disease,
neuropathy, and trauma.
it seems his handicap leaves him
no other option but to beg
for his living
in
Old Delhi
and other venues
Photography’s new conscience
last week we got the news a magnificent, historic barn had burned to the ground from a lightning strike. at first, i thought it was this structure....the place i now call my church since it's open to the public and a destination on many of my walks. i'm always alone here except for the hundreds of swallows that swoop in an out of the entrance. as it turned out, the building's brother was the victim. not the grandeur of his sister, but proud in history and purpose. had this barn been destroyed, it would have felt like an amputation. cherish the stories in the walls of the old.
the building seen thru the arch is the one we lost:
www.flickr.com/photos/21891888@N00/29314873646/in/datepos...
Loverboy Art Boutique - proceeds benefitting the JDRF
Loverboy have chosen to donate their share from the sale of all items purchased on the Loverboy Art Boutique website to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation!
This is the only artwork ever to be officially released and licensed by Loverboy, a band that creates incredible music which has inspired generations, has been touring for many years and continues to be relevant decades after they originally formed.
Loverboy Art Boutique
JDRF
Dedicated to Finding a Cure
Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (JDRF) is the leader in setting the agenda for type 1 diabetes research worldwide, and is the world’s largest charitable funder and advocate of type 1 diabetes research.
The mission of JDRF is to find a cure for diabetes and its complications through the support of research. Type 1 diabetes is a disease that strikes children and adults suddenly, but lasts a lifetime.
It requires multiple injections of insulin daily or a continuous infusion of insulin through a pump. Insulin, however, is not a cure for diabetes, nor does it prevent its eventual and devastating complications, which may include kidney failure, blindness, heart disease, stroke, amputation, and pregnancy complications.
Hurry Up Please Its Time
What is death, I ask.
What is life, you ask.
I give them both my buttocks,
my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.
They are neat as a wallet,
opening and closing on their coins,
the quarters, the nickels,
straight into the crapper.
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and moon the executioner
as well as paste raisins on my breasts?
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and show my little cunny to Tom
and Albert? They wee-wee funny.
I wee-wee like a squaw.
I have ink but no pen, still
I dream that I can piss in God's eye.
I dream I'm a boy with a zipper.
It's so practical, la de dah.
The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,
is being a little girl in the first place.
Not all the books of the world will change that.
I have swallowed an orange, being woman.
You have swallowed a ruler, being man.
Yet waiting to die we are the same thing.
Jehovah pleasures himself with his axe
before we are both overthrown.
Skeezix, you are me.
La de dah.
You grow a beard but our drool is identical.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
Today is November 14th, 1972.
I live in Weston, Mass.
, Middlesex County,
U.
S.
A.
, and it rains steadily
in the pond like white puppy eyes.
The pond is waiting for its skin.
the pond is waiting for its leather.
The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.
It begins:
Interrogator:
What can you say of your last seven days?
Anne:
They were tired.
Interrogator:
One day is enough to perfect a man.
Anne:
I watered and fed the plant.
*
My undertaker waits for me.
he is probably twenty-three now,
learning his trade.
He'll stitch up the gren,
he'll fasten the bones down
lest they fly away.
I am flying today.
I am not tired today.
I am a motor.
I am cramming in the sugar.
I am running up the hallways.
I am squeezing out the milk.
I am dissecting the dictionary.
I am God, la de dah.
Peanut butter is the American food.
We all eat it, being patriotic.
Ms.
Dog is out fighting the dollars,
rolling in a field of bucks.
You've got it made if you take the wafer,
take some wine,
take some bucks,
the green papery song of the office.
What a jello she could make with it,
the fives, the tens, the twenties,
all in a goo to feed the baby.
Andrew Jackson as an hors d'oeuvre,
la de dah.
I wish I were the U.
S.
Mint,
turning it all out,
turtle green
and monk black.
Who's that at the podium
in black and white,
blurting into the mike?
Ms.
Dog.
Is she spilling her guts?
You bet.
Otherwise they cough.
.
.
The day is slipping away, why am I
out here, what do they want?
I am sorrowful in November.
.
.
(no they don't want that,
they want bee stings).
Toot, toot, tootsy don't cry.
Toot, toot, tootsy good-bye.
If you don't get a letter then
you'll know I'm in jail.
.
.
Remember that, Skeezix,
our first song?
Who's thinking those things?
Ms.
Dog! She's out fighting the dollars.
Milk is the American drink.
Oh queens of sorrows,
oh water lady,
place me in your cup
and pull over the clouds
so no one can see.
She don't want no dollars.
She done want a mama.
The white of the white.
Anne says:
This is the rainy season.
I am sorrowful in November.
The kettle is whistling.
I must butter the toast.
And give it jam too.
My kitchen is a heart.
I must feed it oxygen once in a while
and mother the mother.
*
Say the woman is forty-four.
Say she is five seven-and-a-half.
Say her hair is stick color.
Say her eyes are chameleon.
Would you put her in a sack and bury her,
suck her down into the dumb dirt?
Some would.
If not, time will.
Ms.
Dog, how much time you got left?
Ms.
Dog, when you gonna feel that cold nose?
You better get straight with the Maker
cuz it's coming, it's a coming!
The cup of coffee is growing and growing
and they're gonna stick your little doll's head
into it and your lungs a gonna get paid
and your clothes a gonna melt.
Hear that, Ms.
Dog!
You of the songs,
you of the classroom,
you of the pocketa-pocketa,
you hungry mother,
you spleen baby!
Them angels gonna be cut down like wheat.
Them songs gonna be sliced with a razor.
Them kitchens gonna get a boulder in the belly.
Them phones gonna be torn out at the root.
There's power in the Lord, baby,
and he's gonna turn off the moon.
He's gonna nail you up in a closet
and there'll be no more Atlantic,
no more dreams, no more seeds.
One noon as you walk out to the mailbox
He'll snatch you up --
a wopman beside the road like a red mitten.
There's a sack over my head.
I can't see.
I'm blind.
The sea collapses.
The sun is a bone.
Hi-ho the derry-o,
we all fall down.
If I were a fisherman I could comprehend.
They fish right through the door
and pull eyes from the fire.
They rock upon the daybreak
and amputate the waters.
They are beating the sea,
they are hurting it,
delving down into the inscrutable salt.
*
When mother left the room
and left me in the big black
and sent away my kitty
to be fried in the camps
and took away my blanket
to wash the me out of it
I lay in the soiled cold and prayed.
It was a little jail in which
I was never slapped with kisses.
I was the engine that couldn't.
Cold wigs blew on the trees outside
and car lights flew like roosters
on the ceiling.
Cradle, you are a grave place.
Interrogator:
What color is the devil?
Anne:
Black and blue.
Interrogator:
What goes up the chimney?
Anne:
Fat Lazarus in his red suit.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
Ms.
Dog prefers to sunbathe nude.
Let the indifferent sky look on.
So what!
Let Mrs.
Sewal pull the curtain back,
from her second story.
So what!
Let United Parcel Service see my parcel.
La de dah.
Sun, you hammer of yellow,
you hat on fire,
you honeysuckle mama,
pour your blonde on me!
Let me laugh for an entire hour
at your supreme being, your Cadillac stuff,
because I've come a long way
from Brussels sprouts.
I've come a long way to peel off my clothes
and lay me down in the grass.
Once only my palms showed.
Once I hung around in my woolly tank suit,
drying my hair in those little meatball curls.
Now I am clothed in gold air with
one dozen halos glistening on my skin.
I am a fortunate lady.
I've gotten out of my pouch
and my teeth are glad
and my heart, that witness,
beats well at the thought.
Oh body, be glad.
You are good goods.
*
Middle-class lady,
you make me smile.
You dig a hole
and come out with a sunburn.
If someone hands you a glass of water
you start constructing a sailboat.
If someone hands you a candy wrapper,
you take it to the book binder.
Pocketa-pocketa.
Once upon a time Ms.
Dog was sixty-six.
She had white hair and wrinkles deep as splinters.
her portrait was nailed up like Christ
and she said of it:
That's when I was forty-two,
down in Rockport with a hat on for the sun,
and Barbara drew a line drawing.
We were, at that moment, drinking vodka
and ginger beer and there was a chill in the air,
although it was July, and she gave me her sweater
to bundle up in.
The next summer Skeezix tied
strings in that hat when we were fishing in Maine.
(It had gone into the lake twice.
)
Of such moments is happiness made.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
Once upon a time we were all born,
popped out like jelly rolls
forgetting our fishdom,
the pleasuring seas,
the country of comfort,
spanked into the oxygens of death,
Good morning life, we say when we wake,
hail mary coffee toast
and we Americans take juice,
a liquid sun going down.
Good morning life.
To wake up is to be born.
To brush your teeth is to be alive.
To make a bowel movement is also desireable.
La de dah,
it's all routine.
Often there are wars
yet the shops keep open
and sausages are still fried.
People rub someone.
People copulate
entering each other's blood,
tying each other's tendons in knots,
transplanting their lives into the bed.
It doesn't matter if there are wars,
the business of life continues
unless you're the one that gets it.
Mama, they say, as their intestines
leak out.
Even without wars
life is dangerous.
Boats spring leaks.
Cigarettes explode.
The snow could be radioactive.
Cancer could ooze out of the radio.
Who knows?
Ms.
Dog stands on the shore
and the sea keeps rocking in
and she wants to talk to God.
Interrogator:
Why talk to God?
Anne:
It's better than playing bridge.
*
Learning to talk is a complex business.
My daughter's first word was utta,
meaning button.
Before there are words
do you dream?
In utero
do you dream?
Who taught you to suck?
And how come?
You don't need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?
The cry of a gull is beautiful
and the cry of a crow is ugly
but what I want to know
is whether they mean the same thing.
Somewhere a man sits with indigestion
and he doesn't care.
A woman is buying bracelets
and earrings and she doesn't care.
La de dah.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
There are stars and faces.
There is ketchup and guitars.
There is the hand of a small child
when you're crossing the street.
There is the old man's last words:
More light! More light!
Ms.
Dog wouldn't give them her buttocks.
She wouldn't moon at them.
Just at the killers of the dream.
The bus boys of the soul.
Or at death
who wants to make her a mummy.
And you too!
Wants to stuf her in a cold shoe
and then amputate the foot.
And you too!
La de dah.
What's the point of fighting the dollars
when all you need is a warm bed?
When the dog barks you let him in.
All we need is someone to let us in.
And one other thing:
to consider the lilies in the field.
Of course earth is a stranger, we pull at its
arms and still it won't speak.
The sea is worse.
It comes in, falling to its knees
but we can't translate the language.
It is only known that they are here to worship,
to worship the terror of the rain,
the mud and all its people,
the body itself,
working like a city,
the night and its slow blood
the autumn sky, mary blue.
but more than that,
to worship the question itself,
though the buildings burn
and the big people topple over in a faint.
Bring a flashlight, Ms.
Dog,
and look in every corner of the brain
and ask and ask and ask
until the kingdom,
however queer,
will come.
by Anne Sexton
A young Honduran immigrant, having his arm amputated by a train during his previous attempt to get illegally to the United States, smokes marijuana on the bank of Suchiate river on the Guatemala-Mexico border. Between 2010 and 2015, the US and Mexico have apprehended almost 1 million illegal immigrants from El Salvador, Honduras, and Guatemala. While the economic reasons remain the most frequent motivation for people from Central America to illegally immigrate to the US, thousands of Salvadorans, Guatemalans, and Hondurans, many of them minors, seek asylum in the US due to the thriving crime and gang-related violence in their region (known as the Northern Triangle). Taking an exhausting and risky journey, riding thousands of miles atop the cargo trains, facing a physical danger and extortion from the organized crime groups that control migrant routes, the “undocumented” still flee to the US, looking for their American dream. © Jan Sochor Photography
This Yezedi man had to walk 7 days in the hills to escape Daesh in Sinjar, Iraq…
« i lost my leg under Saddam Hussein regime… and now i suffer again under Daesh regime"
3 August 2014 will remain the day the life of the yazedis has changed.
Up to 200,000 yazedis people have been displaced from their homes in Sinjar City and the surrounding towns and villages when ISIS arrived by surprise . The islamist group asked the residents to convert or die...Hundreds of Yazidis were executed as they refused. Most of the people left the village on time, fleeing on foot in the mountains, without nothing and most of the time without water or food , under a 50 degrees
temperature. They walked for 7 days, including the babies and the elders. Many were killed, wounded or captured on the way. Now thousands are in Duhok in Kurdistan, and towns like Zoar when they have found a shelter for the winter. Some still have contacts thanks to the mobile phones with the relatives captured or trapped in Sinjar, but many do not have any news of their relatives and fear the worst...Until now, the town od Sinjar is seized by ISIS, where hundreds of Yazidis remain stranded months after fleeing their homes.But Kurdish
peshmergas have regained lot of the ground lost to ISIS with the help of the U.S. air strikes. Sinjar is a strategic place as it would put the peshmergas on three sides of Mosul, the largest city under ISIS rule in northern Iraq.