View allAll Photos Tagged CRAVES
- Week 25/52
- Theme = Crave
- Bruce Cattell
- MCP Project 52
Nikon D80 used two 15w CFL's below and behind the glass to blowout the background and used one SB800 @ 45/45 camera left @ 1/32 power
It's a shame when someone forgets how to have fun with no one watching. For every picture you see of me in the wild, I've climbed a dozen trees unseen, hopped a hundred streams out of sight, and slid like a child down some slippery surface in secret. It's all for my benefit alone. I love silence, crave isolation, and get to experience endlessly joyful hours of it. But I choose to not be invisible in a crowd. Some folks think that being a loner is about keeping quiet in company – well, that's sure not my brand of introversion. Quiet people have always made me deeply uncomfortable. It seems beside the point, a waste of opportunity. Ninety percent of my time is already unshared, why should I drag my shell into society with me? Taciturn conversation is fine when talking to myself, swearing at stubbed toes and making mental notes. But if you put me in a room, I won't reject the soul of civilization. Why do we come together if it's not to share stories? Tales from our recent separation. When I was young, I was so shy it hurt. I'd turn every chance to be with people inside-out, and there were those who knew me for years yet barely heard a word from me. I started writing so words would escape, then started speaking so the writing would be heard. Eventually, I learned to speak for myself. I hope you'll do the same. There's still plenty of time to shut up when we're old.
March 13, 2025
Forest Glade, Nova Scotia
Year 18, Day 6332 of my daily journal.
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I crave it
so much that I can taste it
It changes, the taste,
sometimes it is coppery, bitter
like blood,
other times it is succulent, sweet
like fresh strawberries, the juice
dripping down my chin
My senses are fully in tune,
my hearing is exuisitely aware of the the sound of satiny skin brushing
over cool, crisp sheets like the rustle of a taffeta wedding gown
My craving is nearer
bright colors burst all around me
deep reds,
bright golds like Rapunzells hair,
indigo blues,
emerald greens bring forth memories of pure waters I have never seen
A fire burns near
the heat rolls over my skin
sweat beads down the center of my back as
I stretch for what I crave
lavender wafts over me and as I breath in clean air
hints of a mountain clean rain exhilirate my soul
and I still crave, only I am not sure what for
CRAVE restaurant (warning: fucktard Flash abuse), across the street from the library.
I had a fish sammich and Caryn had a veggie sammich.
(off screen: "ah-HEEHHHHHM!!!!")
Oh, sorry. I had a Polenta Crusted Blackened Catfish Poboy w/ Whole Grain Mustard Remoulade, & Cherry Pepper Crawfish Relish, and Caryn had a Grilled Zuchini, Golden Tomato, & Marinated Artichoke Panini w/ Manchega Cheese, & Hot Pepper Jelly on Focaccia.
one of the foods i crave a lot.
these can't possibly be healthy...
there's enough sodium in there to take out an army.
my roommate from last year didn't know that pickles are actually fermented cucumbers. i guess she thought pickles grew on some sort of tree?
check out the dying plant in the background...
more at: aksdareflection.deviantart.com/
I have love, freedom, happiness, joy, care.. all i want from you is importance...
This is Scott staring in awe at The Slopper a green chile smothered cheeseburger over a grilled cheese sandwich, topped with lettuce, tomato, onion, poblanos, pico, sour cream and avocado. His comment was that the green chili was so good, it would taste good on cardboard! As eaten at Crave Real Burger, Castle Rock, Colorado.
(+1 in comments)
"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you."
-Maya Angelou
The Luther: bacon, cheddar, egg and onion with 2 glazed donuts as the bun. As eaten at Crave Real Burger, Castle Rock Colorado.
There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.
The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.
How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.
Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.