so go on

live your life

so go on, say goodbye

so many questions, but I don’t ask why

so this time I won’t even try

hush hush now

www.youtube.com/watch?v=VeLNdwe1Dko

++++++

Thirteen years ago Avril Lavigne released a self-titled album that ended on a somber note with the piano ballad “Hush Hush”. At the time I liked the musical aspect of the song, but was really put off by some of the more stereotypical lyrics that really just made me brush the whole thing off as shallow. The song faded from my general consciousness until this week, when my job laid off a bunch of people for no apparent reason. Some lines from it basically just popped into my head and ended up hitting me somewhat hard.

The callousness, capriciousness, and secrecy of corporate workings—especially the ones that treat people like they’re dispensable and ignore the human costs of treating everything like it’s “just business”—I guess I’m desperately trying to find an outlet for my frustration about this. And somehow this song, despite its shortcomings, speaks to that feeling for me.

There was also a nice sunset at one of the end of the days this week and I grabbed one of my newer custom dolls off the shelf to try and take advantage of the lighting in the backyard. (I can’t stress to you enough how much lack of planning went into this! There was a sunset and I tried something dumb! My actual camera didn’t have battery life; I could not find my spare battery; I had to grab my phone and this doll and RUN outside before the golden hour expired.)

This doll is based on Kathy Rain, the foul-mouthed, blue-haired, motorcycle-riding private investigator from the Kathy Rain video game series (she started out as Barbie Basics 2025 series 1, doll 2; she’s wearing a motorcycle jacket from StudioDollStory(www.etsy.com/shop/StudioDollStory), and wearing adorable ripped up jeans from MikillyFashion(www.etsy.com/shop/MikillyFashion)). I could see in my head some kind of cool shot of her riding her motorcycle in front of an out of focus cityscape, like the game itself kind of shows during interstitial scenes (who knows, at some point I might try to properly do this). But in lieu of doing that on such short notice, I took one of the most interesting shots from this impromptu session(that had a really crappy background of junk in my yard that no one wants to look at) and tried out some generative AI to give me a cityscape background. That didn’t really go well but I attempted to make it look like how I see it in my head and less like a super cheesy and lazy photo manipulation (hence, the mega blur! DOUBLE fake blur! Hide the cheapness!).

I’ve ended up with something that seems to do justice to … whatever I’m feeling right now, even if it’s not where I wish it was technically. Blue toned photo, blue toned song, blue toned me. Because I feel like people deserve better than this.

Lifetime 197.365

Warsaw, Poland

Winter

I think about hands too much probably. They interest me, perhaps to the point where I can imagine the stories they may tell, given a voice. I think about the work they have endured, the love they have held, the life they have led, the help they have offered. I think about the deeds that have been done under cover of night and the ones that go unnoticed by the most watchful of us. I think about the secrets that they keep and the scars that mark time passing. Too much to consider, but hands captivate me, especially when they have aged and have the callouses of life.

Join me on my personal website Erik Witsoe or contact me at ewitsoe@gmail.com for cooperation. Thank you.

I also write on Medium and you can find me here: Erik Witsoe.

If you like my work, you can support me by giving me a like on my Facebook Erik Witsoe Photography and 500px and Twitter Instagram and also Google + Thank you for stopping by!

A rather callous fellow. Stone cold, get in then get out kinda guy.

A recently (re)painted wall in Mandawa in the Shekhawati region of Rajasthan - the priginal art is more than a century and half old and has survived in many of the mansions on the walls and ceilings, bravely facing the assault of the harsh desert weather conditions, and worse the callous indifference of the owners and later, occupants of these maginificent mansions called havelis...

Compare the "art" depicted in this pic with the ones in the earlier photograph posted here - to understand and appreciate the asotunding skill of the original artists...

This funny panel shows the Wright brothers on their first flight, with the caption "the flyign machine" in Hindi. The image on the left is that of some prince or king on his usual tiger hunt - no captions felt to be required here obviously!

View my other photos from Shekhawati here

My travelog on haveli hoppping in Shekhawati here

Every Season Has Its Own Glory (JHWatkins) not hdr

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Fired by the framework

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled commotion emotions prevail.

Beacons in quiet of last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confession

In smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections by stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Come drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of the burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

Getting gussied up for an adventure, maybe come back a little richer... ooooor just a bit more calloused and blistered. Who can tell?

Been slow to post lately for a lot of reasons. Lack of ideas mainly... trying to figure out which direction I wanna push my creativity and just how serious I intend to take it. And stuck in a quandary about investing in focal lengths missing from my kit, another speedlight, or really jumping the gun and snagging a wide-format printer so I can actually do something with my work rather than shove it up on flickr. Decisions decisions.

In the meantime, my local Borders is closing down and I'm gonna go make something out of the sale there. More than certain I can find just a few publications worth my trouble.

No reason to be so callous...

I read the news today, oh boy,

About a lucky man who made the grade,

And though the news was rather sad …

I’d love to turn you on”

Lennon & McCartney A Day in the Life.

I’ve seen a lot of photos in the news lately with “1.5° to Survive” written on people’s palms. Then this morning saw that 200 nations attending COP27 have agreed to start (yet another) fund to assist developing countries with adaptation to climate change; but the conference made no progress on cutting emissions. So I wrote “1.5°“ on my never-calloused, winter-dried fingertips, because the opportunity has slipped away. No surprise, sensible people have known for awhile, The Economist finally said so in plain English earlier this month:

www.economist.com/interactive/briefing/2022/11/05/the-wor...

When our dreams exceed our grasp, …

Love Nature, Help Others, Be Grateful

20-11-2022; 08:20 CST iPhone

"I am easily moved to tears and rarely survive a visit to the cinema without shedding them, racked, as I am, by the most perfunctory, meretricious or even callously sentimental attempts at poignancy..."

The feudal lord Tahi and his callous management of the estates and the imposition of excessive taxes were the reason for the Peasants' Revolt.

Update of sunset spires on Colorado River. This has been denoised and simplified, plus haze removed.

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK <a href=" www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

STANDING ON THE PRECIPICE

Standing on the precipice,

Balanced at junctions,

Space and time-

There are no excuses here,

No explanations or rhymes.

Locked in lavish rhythm,

Far beyond the brink,

Hid from help or rescue,

On jagged edge distinct.

Weighty voices,

Tomorrows bearing,

Form forces by the day…

Wound tight

In folds of failure,

By faltering historic foray.

Naked standing truth,

Whirl winded and filleted,

Open now,

Body bleeding,

Clean by choice,

Ruthless rights parlayed.

Ring round the

Restless righteous,

Tormented tongues

Twisted and advanced-

Weapons trained,

Fitting filled,

Hopelessness entranced.

New toys

For large little boys,

Clicking clocks

In finest fashion.

Positioned perspective plus

Poisoned possessive power,

From places unimagined.

Whining women,

Worn-out white wheezers,

Talking days on end,

Tortured trials

Of wasted words,

Useless air

Precious spent.

Children torn

Apart at seams,

Families drugged

And drenched…

Callous toned nightmares

Running wild,

Seeds scattered in the wind.

Lost by generation’s

Darkened doubt,

Aflame the fearless world,

Tossed aside in hellish schemes,

Now rampant,

Flags unfurled.

Gone the green

And yearning years,

Foundations fairly laid,

Of priceless pearl

In wisdom grown,

Crown jewelry

On parade.

But new

The turning earth begins,

Choice

Once again delayed.

Come cold and calm

Courageous men-

Run boldly to

Your fate.

And stand in

Earnest errand bare,

An era

At the end,

To bind yourselves

Betrothed and braced,

To finish

Without fear.

James Watkins (3-10-2007)

With an etain-blue estoile upon my chest

I went to the Far

and paid

Mammoney

to see the Great Freak Fate:

they say He is the Valet

to the Divine Mind;

folding smoothing brushing aside

(those who become irreleventistic)

Questo bruto though

did nothing to speak of -

nor

- spoke up of anything,

only sat dully staring like a brilliant sufi.

I waited for Fate

to cease being a Wall

and become more of a Wailing

so I could lay the bag of prayer off

these callow calloused shoulders.

I waited for Il Fato

to reveal

Himself

in a anaked exhibition of hierophancy.

However, the big thick bear of a mute brute

bore forth no unbearing

But:

as i turndago

Fate

ahommed like a cough

for my attention

and made such a delicate twirling swirling moving curling

of his fingers;

in a jester's gesture that could only mean

'watch what my hands sound like -

rhythm carries a deeper point

than a point

that demands to be carried deep...'

"I - he said clearly - can speak more in the How dialect

than the Why.

I am more of a calculus

of the

romantic potentiables

than

a liturgy

of

The End...'

Jhonny Cash's song These Hands are the hands of a gentlement, these hands are calloused and Old, these hands raised a family, these hands built a home, Take a look at these hard working Hands.

“ Chaos isn’t a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but refuse. They cling to the realm, or love, or the gods…illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is. But they’ll never know this. Not until it’s too late.”

― George R.R. Martin

ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ

I'm glad we both agree on this ❤️❤️❤️

" Chaos is the proof, the test to screen out all the cowardly men from your life. Not every man dares to climb it ."

― Scarlett Saphira

ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ

Tale: I have heart because I have you, my Hansen

Have I ever truly conveyed the profound magnitude of your presence in my life? As a woman who may have once been perceived as unkind to those entrusted to her care, with you, my love, everything transforms.

You, my Hansen, are the sole exception, the one soul with whom I have never exchanged a single argument throughout our 9 years together. You are the only person to whom I am wholeheartedly committed, shielding you from any harm that may come from myself or any hurtful words that might escape my lips. You are the only man I protect from my darkest sides and desires, and I allow you to experience true happiness solely in my presence because you have proven yourself so much. Finally, it is only you who deserves to be happy with me without a hint of any damage.

You have breathed life into this once-frigid heart, igniting within me an unwavering desire to shower you with my boundless tenderness, my genuine and profound affection.

For you, I am devoted to becoming the best version of myself. You, my love, are the only soul who truly deserves this commitment. I am eternally grateful for the love you have bestowed upon me, as it has shaped and molded me into the person I am today, all for you.

This declaration echoes through the depths of my being - "I have a heart because I have you."

Like this heart's puzzle, my love, without you, this once callous soul would remain cold and frozen.Thank you for completing this heart and bringing it to life by being you, a strong wise man who never be a coward even once to disappoint your women.

I ❤️ You

Saphira 💞 Hansen

ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ

Dress: Belle Epoque - Netasha @ FaMESHed Event

Pose: [DPSP] - Chapter 31 - Puzzle Piece

[DPSP] Mainstore

maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Yellow%20Stone/217/39/21

FaMESHed Event (June)

maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/FaMESHed/219/219/801

"In midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish,

Of the look at first of the mortally wounded--of that indescribable

look;

Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide,

I dream, I dream, I dream.

Of scenes of nature, fields and mountains;

Of skies, so beauteous after a storm--and at night the moon so

unearthly bright,

Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and gather

the heaps,

I dream, I dream, I dream.

Long, long have they pass'd--faces and trenches and fields;

Where through the carnage I moved with a callous composure--or away

from the fallen,

Onward I sped at the time--But now of their forms at night,

I dream, I dream, I dream."

-Walt Whitman

[ null daten ]

These were after days of barefooting in gravel, dirt, sticks, thorns, stone, ice, asphalt for many kms. My tough soles withstood all aside from some minor scratches you can see.

Golden as the light which filtered through autumn leaves, her wounds wept for the pain callously dealt. And you add insult to injury.

Kelsie is a beautifully talented Illustration artist. Her drawings are full of quiet, delicate vulnerability. Some of her most poignant drawings involve a fox or a fawn struck with an arrow. Be a doll and meander on over to her instagram: instagram.com/__seasonpoem/

Best Large-Everywhere you turn there are opportunities to shoot inspirational shots of nature. Here just south of Montgomery, Alabama en route to Mobile in impressionistic styling.

Every season has its own glory (James Watkins)

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Fired up frameworks

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled commotion emotions prevail.

Beacons of quiet in last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confessional

Smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections, stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

coffee grounds. today i stood in the kitchen scrubbing my hands and thinking about my callouses. this version

The mill is a fascinating museum, a rare example of Lancashire's textile heritage.

Due to government cuts, it's sadly threatened with closure, alongside Burnley's Queen Street Mill.

My ancestors on my father's side laboured out their lives in such places, where the hours were long, the work was dangerous and the pay minimal.

It seems a callous act to bring about the closure of these surviving testaments to the thousands who suffered for the wealth of the few.

www.facebook.com/Caroline-Johnson-Fine-Artist-and-Urban-S...

Rapid Creek Plant Life

Forget the narcissist leader

Who persuades you through their exceptional talent

The leader who elicits your secrets

Who manipulates every situation you are in

The leader who is beyond control

Who will make you regret

Idiots all of them

Basking in their callous work

Take a step outside

Into the night

And enjoy the uniqueness of life

www.jjfbbennett.com/2020/08/rapid-creek-plant-life.html

There is no bigger story from local rail preservation this year than that of the resumption of work on Rio Grande 223 under the guidance of the C-16 Locomotive Society and the Colorado Railroad Museum. After six years of the locomotive sitting in a state of suspended animation, the resumption of work and its eventual return to Colorado is an exciting conclusion to a long restoration process.

It's also elicited a bit of reflection, I never was a member of the Golden Spike chapter of the R&LHS but my family offered some financial donations (okay my dad bought me the poster they were selling as a fundraiser when we first visited the 223 shops), and I was cheerleading the project from the comfort of my armchair. Occasionally a narrative still arises that that the R&LHS chapter failed the restoration effort, when what I have gathered it was a fairly steady restoration job; paying as they could go and putting quality if slow going work into the engine. Ultimately what doomed the Golden Spike R&LHS was difficulty navigating the mercurial world of city politics, and Ogden City's shut down of the project in 2019 was a slap in the face towards the volunteers working on the engine (que some "well you need to own the property" quote from online commentators, advice I'd argue while true always comes across as "well no shit Sherlock... hammocks! Why didn't I think of that?"). Understandably the Golden Spike chapter continued to fight for the engine's future and by extension the Utah State Railroad museum's future as a whole, creating a narrative as seen by some that they were an obstinate party, despite their effort leading to local news coverage of their efforts making it to the broader public raising awareness of the locomotive and the museum.

In a way the Golden Spike chapter's stubbornness paid off in drawing attention to redevelopment plans at Union Station. One of the biggest controversies my social media and photography pages have ever stumbled into was a report my friends and I published while I was in college over planned changes to Ogden's Union Station (written some years before the 223 lock-out), having seen early draft renovation plans for the site that would have removed the rail displays in favor of an ice rink. We got a lot of push back on that subject (in part because of our panicked, overeager and screaming from the rooftops tone that I can best attribute to "I was younger then"), and I understandably dropped it and shrank away from discussions of it; only to see the discussions on the museum's future flare up after the 223 lock-out occurred. In looking back on the matter recently, I got a chuckle that I threw out barbs out at the time rooted in a "poor, poor, pitiful me" attitude on local rail preservation; it's something that can still stick with me to some regard but has been tempered a lot by a) reminding myself of my armchair enthusiast position in almost all of this and that it isn't so fair to throw darts from the comfort of home and b) the realization that my own dissatisfaction with local steam lacking in action pushed me to take visits to some of my now favorite railroads in Nevada, Oregon, Colorado, Ohio and as far as Britain last year (and also with it a greater appreciation for the National Park Service ran Golden Spike site as my one local exception to the norm, I love my time visiting there) in the last few years leading to some of my most favorite adventures and memories that I could never have achieved as a railfan had I just stayed home waiting stubbornly for 223 or some other local project to suddenly roll out in steam here in Utah without any effort from my part! There is also some vindication too with time, since I also believe what has helped shaped Union Station's direction recently for the better has been consistent public feedback and even outcry from the community showing how much we love our railroad museum.

What has happened since, in the whims of city politics Ogden still is marching ahead with considering plans to renovate the Union Station site but public feedback has helped them keep the rail history as part of their future plans. The former Golden Spike members became one of the most vocal voices on this and groups such as "Save Union Station" on social media proved the public desire to see rail history remain on site as renovation plans continued to involve On the museum's end, this has included a growth in the diesel locomotive displays (and an eagle eye looking at my photo can spot the Western Pacific engine down the track, fulfilling a long vacant need to represent Utah's smallest Class One at the museum); and Ogden's work recently shows a continued interest in moving forward with the museum and site redevelopment in step. It is a reminder that for all the foibles of governance, that local voices can matter; and I hope the former 223 restoration crew continues to publicly voice their approval or disapproval of changes at the museum as the place continues to evolve; and that victories such as the Western Pacific finally being fully represented at the museum continue to benefit the local community and preservation interests. Maybe with the right voices in the room as the station's future redevelopment is considered, we can have our cake and eat it too; getting both a better rail museum and a downtown commercial/tourist anchor in the process; but that cannot be achieved if the rail preservation parties were to roll over silently and not raise their voices since without that open public dialogue we could always end right back up at those days of "ice rink" site plans again.

If anything while 2019's 223 shut down could have been read as a local government callous to its rail history, the 2025 donation of the engine seems a more calculated decision to deaccession the piece from the collection to its proper home in Colorado while turning the focus to Utah related subjects (although trust me, I wish something at least could stand in at the museum for Utah's often forgotten narrow gauge history! Anyone got a spare Utah Northern engine lying around?) This last week a former DRGW SW1200 made its way into Utah, en-route to Ogden; the latest addition to a collection of Utah rail history to come to the museum, it's shared time here with 223 before the narrow gauge engine leaves for its new home will likely be short but it is a neat changing of the guard as the collection in Ogden both expands in scope yet with a more narrow focus on Utah railroading.

It is unfortunate though that in a change of stewardship, that the R&LHS chapter won't have much of a hand on the wheel for 223's future; but I suspect once the engine arrives in Colorado the completed cab, appliances and tender worked on by the Golden Spike chapter will be a blessing for the new restoration crew; and attention can be focused on the boiler and running gear instead. The work the R&LHS put in will hopefully prove invaluable to bringing the rest of the project to a close. I think many of us will be excited for the day 223 once again steps out on the rails under steam, the conclusion of a long, sometimes painful, yet what shall be an ultimately victorious restoration effort born from starry eyed and dedicated volunteer work in the full Titfield Thunderbolt-ian vein. Every piece worked on from the Golden Spike R&LHS' contributions to the eventual conclusion in Colorado will represent one of the most storied restoration efforts in American rail preservation history; and I hope that when the day comes 223's whistle is heard in the Rockies again that everyone who has ever worked on the project can smile knowing it proved the naysayers who looked at a pitiful wreck of a locomotive dragged from a Salt Lake City park saying "it can't be done!" wrong once and for all! When we're standing trackside watching 223 roll by someday we'll all owe our gratitude to the dreamers who said it was possible and started the project. I hope to be there in Golden, or Durango or Chama or wherever it is that day when it finally happens to see it myself.

Taken in the Natural Park Sintra-Cascais, Portugal.

www.nunomota.net

www.facebook.com/nunomotaphoto

I think many of us struggle with the trust it takes to fall in love, and to allow someone to love us back. Past hurts and memories are haunting things, and they keep us from fully living sometimes. I'm definitely no different. It is with much difficulty these days that I find myself actually wanting to go down that road, to trust someone with that much of myself. Because I honestly don't see the point in half-relationships. Either I'm in, or I'm out. And I really believe that as human beings, we all crave that sense of safe-ness that finding someone to love brings. It is innate in our nature to want to give and receive something so intangible, while at the same time something so omnipresent that all we need to do is walk out into the world to see proof of.

When I went to shoot this picture, I had a very clear idea of what I wanted it to look like. Yet, when actually shooting I found myself keeping the hands bound instead of being already free. I've struggled for several years with the desire (yet immense fear) of letting someone truly close to me, knowing the havoc they could wreak. I've lied and said I wasn't afraid, that I wouldn't want to be the kind of person who runs or hides from loving someone in a romantic way... yet I found myself avoiding any kind of contact that would lead to it. Because I thought I felt safer not relinquishing that level of trust. But the thing is, I also could feel an important part of me seem to go dormant, and not necessarily in a good way. That wasn't what I wanted, and it wasn't what I needed. And I reminded myself that not everyone is going to be callous with that trust. It's funny. You can almost physically feel the portals of your heart start to open up as they swell. And while I feel myself opening up with gratifying leaps, I still struggle from time to time and find myself grow doubtful for only a moment. It might be a bit of a struggle, but it's well worth it. It's so worth it.

Heathens Stew.

Horreurs qui parlent aux lecteurs ombres des mots puritains sombres forces inexplicables souffle gothique vieilles traditions fantômes étranges légendes fantaisistes remué,

pensieri rumorosi tempestosi figure intense idee cupe sogni trascendenti tremolanti mutamenti speculazioni malinconiche studi mentali,

societate sângeroasă dezgustătoare reverii ignorante ori dezmembrate lansând emoții demoni violenți străini gesturi pași conflictuali,

desolado espanto terrível sem-teto efeitos desfavoráveis indiferença sentidos indiferença teoria selvagem frenesi pescoços iluminações servidas,

sráideanna jaunty ag bualadh macallaí feoil marbh machnaimh faoi léigear cúisithe dearaí uafásacha uafásacha guthanna faoi léigear nádúr superstitious callous,

不調和な写真つまずく大臣は状況を引きずりました強制渇きのレッスンは邪悪な殉教の静かなターンを交換します震えるカウンセラー焦りの吠え声検査官不安な暑さ.

Steve.D.Hammond.

Winter ice and solid rock scar my bare soles. Rough cracked heels are a badge of honor

#barefoot #barefooter #barefoothiking #barefootrunner #barefooting #feet #barefootlife #alwaysbarefoot #soles #callous #callousedsoles #toughsoles #roughsoles #callousedfeet #hardsoles #dirtyfeet #dirtysoles #toughfeet #roughfeet #noshoes #barfuss

the world and the life it has provided for me is hardening my skin and callousing my hands and im putting up my guard and I understand why people are bitchy and rude and sad and angry and why people hide inside themselves and why babies cry the moment they come from their mothers gentle womb because this world is a mad place filled with so much weight and its heavier than ever.

Anyone who has watched a train video on youtube has likely seen the chaos that unfolds in Ashland, Virginia on a weekly and sometimes nightly basis. About a day prior to this photo, a truck hauling a horse trailer decided not to wait for the train, and whacked the crossing gate arm at the England St. crossing. The top half of the crossing arm was damaged, and began dangling in the air due to Saturday's high winds. A CSX signals crew had to come out and replace it after it was called in. CSXT Q410 was out of Acca Yard right around the same time, and Amtrak was also through town. After waiting for the southbound Amtrak, the conductor of Q410 flags the crossing while the signals crew repairs the gate. I'll never understand the general public's callousness about railroad safety, nor will I wrap my head around folks choosing to drive down railroad tracks. Either way- it's always an adventure in Ashland.

September 16, 2011.

I was featured on the 14 September post on the Flickr blog :)

Haven't been taking pictures much lately because I've been moving. I know this is like.. not interesting but it'll do for now. Putting things in boxes only to take them out again; knowing that I'll probably throw away things that I'll be searching for later; going through memory, after memory, realizing I've outgrown them and slowly making myself discard them in the glaringly unfriendly trash can. Grade school exercise books; crumpled letters; childish journal entries written with shocking immaturity; fading photographs; long-ago awards and certificates, all hesitated over, then callously thrown. It's like ripping off a piece of yourself that you've forgotten existed, but was always there.

I didn't really know how much of a hoarder I was. People call them junk but I like to think of them as past memories. If they weren't there, wouldn't you forget what had happened more easily?

Thank you for 80,000 photostream views.

youtube ll like my facebook like like like ll if you want to ask anything

number eighteen

for some reason i got really ambitious this month and thought that it would be a fun idea to make my own place settings for my dining room table. i gathered all of the materials i needed and i finally had a chance to start making them. well, two and a half hours later and i finished one and got a callous on my thumb. rad. so between now and thursday i have to make three more... and a tree skirt! i just keep trying to envision my final product and how glamorous my table is going to look! :D

Barney's still doing really well with his recovery from the spinal stroke! Each week Barney regains a little more strength & coordination. He's made it absolutely clear he is determined to walk by himself & at home, I no longer really help move - Barney won't hang around long enough to let me! He jumps up & scurries off... Some of the time, Barney's still sort of shuffling but he's getting much better at actually walking fully upright, in a roughly normal way. He's still unsteady, occasionally loses where his back paws are & he finds turning corners hard but has gained a lot of confidence in the past month. Today, I opened the back door to take him in he garden & Barney shot out past me & did bunny hops down the path - it's the first time he's managed that, without falling over.

Recovery isn't without difficulties, of course. The nails on his back paws have got worn down & poor Barney injured one a week ago, making it bleed. He also has a teeny tiny callous on the top of that same paw & so Barney now has a bandage on that paw. I feel bad as the bandage is undoubtedly making walking a little harder but hopefully it'll all heal up soon! Barney's also been super itchy recently, all over his back, ribs & abdomen. Even antihistamines haven't been a huge help which means the dreaded "cone of shame" has had to be used, to stop him nibbling & getting hot spots. He's obviously not thrilled about the cone but the fact Barney is itchy means his nerves are starting to work again & sensation is returning, so that's really a good thing - hopefully soon everything will settle down!!

Barney continues to amaze me with his cheerful, enthusiastic attitude, nothing seems to phase him for long - he loves his cuddles & his dinners & treats & getting his daily exercise - oh & he likes the extra attention & fuss people in our neighbourhood have been giving him. It's quite sweet how eagerly many local people have been watching Barney's progress, neighbours who I'd only ever said a quick "good afternoon" to, now stop us & tell Barney what a good boy he is & give him a pat :)

4 shots blending / light up by using flash with color filter at the one of unseen in Thailand place "Sam Phan Boke"

Let the Air Force I have freely and without any restrictions, such as Superman and I wish I have a callous heart to forget all of my concerns

...for the people in Paris who lost their lives, their families who lost a person they loved, and for the peace that was, once again, taken from the human civilization. Sometimes I become discouraged, and I think praying for peace is a hopeless dream...there will always be humans with feelings of greed, hatred and prejudice in their hearts. And then we have the people, like the terrorists last night, who take those feelings to the next level, and callously take the lives of others.

Almost 3 years ago, a gunman devastatingly took the lives of many children and some teachers just a few towns over from me in CT. How it rattled, not just our state, or country..but the world. How do we stop it from happening, we ask? We can pass more laws, increase security...but there will always be some psycho-in-waiting, who will find a weapon, get around security. They look up info on previous mass-killings, and they plan. Maybe that info should not be publicly available, so they can't use it as a lesson plan.

Another thing we should be doing is giving absolutely NO attention to the shooter afterwards....no showing their picture, no saying their name, or talking about their childhood and where they went to school...nothing!!! Let's not give the next psycho a reason to think he's going to be famous if he does the same.

Wow...did I title this 'moment of silence'...should've called it 'moment of raging rant'. I am sorry to go on and on, it's just so heartbreaking, and at the same time scary. The best we could do is be aware, show kindness to others while appreciating every moment we have. Give your family an extra hug and kiss...be thankful for today, and hope for tomorrow...

Construction workers take some time out for a more delicate art. This is how i started...photography with my Sony Erricsson :-)

A very very close-up. Amazing!

better large-Beautiful late summer afternoon in Kansas as we were driving through. The golden fields of wheat throughout the heartland of America are beautiful all over the prairie states during this season. Kansas, Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota, Wyoming, Colorado, and some parts of Montana...among others really have the wheat fields.

The cloud formations at sunset and sunrise are magnificent in contrast to the fields as the changing light brings all types of contrasts and colors to play. I personally like the contrast between the green of the grass or other crops with the golden wheat. I WILL come back here and explore the plains fully on my motorcycle!

Every season has its own glory (James Watkins)

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Fired up frameworks

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled commotion emotions prevail.

Beacons of quiet in last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confessional

Smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections, stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

Lyrics taken from Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself", from Leaves of Grass...

"You there, impotent, loose in the knees

Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you

Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets

I am not to be denied...

Mine is no callous shell

I have instant conductors all over me

[repeat]

I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers

And that's about as much as I can stand"...

Severed Heads / Goodbye Tonsils...

www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3-v2u2dz2E...

Ivy's taken root in Gotham. The toxic beauty has been targeting businesses and corporations she deems abusers and killers of nature. "I will make them all pay, the fat cat CEOs, politicians, all of them. Their greedy bodies will feed my little garden, giving back at last to those they reaped so callously from. Gotham will be a new Eden and I it's green Goddess"

Every season has its own glory (James Watkins) not hdr

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Now stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Fired by the framework

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices once lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled commotion emotions prevail.

Beacons in quiet of last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confession

In smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections by stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Come drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of the burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

Looking straight ahead, always on guard and the subject of callous and cruel hunting, this faceless image of a fox taken from behind just stirred my emotions.

"I've wanted to be the light one, the simple one, the sweet one. Last night I learned - or perhaps was reminded - that I am none of these things. I am powerful.

-Michele Gardella

Golden as the light which filtered through autumn leaves, her wounds wept for the pain callously dealt. And you add insult to injury.

Be a doll and meander on over to Kelsie's instagram to see her lovely illustrations: instagram.com/__seasonpoem/

Behind the scenes: aleahmichele.com/uncategorized/bts-insult-to-injury/

This is the first time that I have been proud to post my pictures of the Redwoods. It has been so hard to get the bright light and dark shadows right. HDR has really made it a lot easier. Some things are better non HDR...not these beautiful trees. It is the only easy way to capture the large swings in the high dynamic range during daylight hours...and bring out/justify what the floor of the forests really look like when standing in them.

These massive trees can live to be a thousand years old...and were just about made extinct before individuals and the Fed stepped in to save the remaining groves. They are most prominent in Northern California and Southern Oregon...though smaller groves and isolated trees are found much further south and north.

FOR THOSE INTERESTED I HAVE AN EXHIBITION AT THIS LINK www.flickr.com/groups/inspiringcollection/discuss/7215762...

Every Season Has Its Own Glory (JHWatkins)

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Fired by the framework

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled commotion emotions prevail.

Beacons in quiet of last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confession

In smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections by stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Come drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of the burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

Your hands may be rough and calloused,

Yet they touch me with such tenderness

And they feel like velvet in my skin.

Your skin is red from the sun,

And you toil at all hours of the night.

I think of you, my caliopsis man

I pray no harm ever befalls you as you toil into the darkness,

And there is no one in sight.

May your angel always protect you as you work in the shadows on a cold winter night.

My husband of almost 34 years, has negotiated his life by a philosophy - no expectations. It works for him - not me!

I am the exact opposite. I am always expecting - although, it has caused me a lifetime of heartaches, trouble, disdain, self-righteous indignation, worry and through the years an attitude of disbelief at how people without regard for their fellow man, haphazardly, without thought, navigate their life causing horrific consequences that reverberate in the hearts of many.

I started writing this a few days before New Years. It was to be a tiding of joy to my Flickr friends, however, that all changed in the wake of the events that led to the callous and pointless death of a Police Officer that never made it back home on New Years Eve. It hits home. Our son is a Police Officer. It grieves us to the very core of our being…

I grew up with the Golden Rule - “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

I feel that I am a minority. I might be wrong. Maybe, I came from another planet and got dropped off here by mistake. I live in expectation. I expect someone to hold the door instead of letting it swing shut in my face. I expect that the people behind the counter should be treated like human beings. I expect that if I let people in with their car that they would give me a nod or a wave of acknowledgement. I expect people not to allow their dog to defecate on my beautiful yard. I expect people to follow the law. I expect that when people go through my school zone they would drop their speed to the safe, legal posting. I expect that when people finish their hamburgers, fries and soft drink that they don’t open the window and spew their litter everywhere. I expect that when I am pushing my shopping cart through the snow covered parking lot at Costco that people would put their brakes on instead of whipping by to get that empty parking stall.

I expect decency. Respect. Kindness.

For quite a few years I worked as a casual employee at a Postal outlet. If you want to witness your fellow, human protoplasm’s worst behaviours, stand by the counter for a few hours. I was renamed every vulgarity you could think of and a few more I’ll bet you don’t even know about! I was threatened - one time with a fellow who said he planted a bomb in his parcel and another from someone that was going to come back with a gun. I was often the only ‘white’ female working amongst many ethnicities. I saw firsthand the atrocities of racial abuse.

In my efforts to keep the corners of my world accountable, I have encountered trouble. When my children were young I championed the school patrol for a time. I helped the young patrols in guiding their peers across the street. There was one instance that was particularly horrific in my endeavours to keep the children safe. In front of no less than fifty witnesses, a mom, blatantly, attempted to run me over and put the children in peril. It took me a long time to process this act of vigilantism. The law was swift in laying charges and restitution.

Another time, I honked ( I know. I know. Count 1,2,3,4,5,6,7… Breathe! ), when some guy in a big truck cut me off in rush hour. The guy returned the honk, threw a huge disposable cup full of pop onto my windshield and made my acquaintance even further by calling me a name that I will never forget.

My son’s vehicle was in the shop that day and I was dropping him off somewhere. I remember vividly, how he sat in the passenger seat shaking his head. He knew his Mama was not one to back down from a confrontation like this. I stopped the vehicle and got out. ( I know. I know. I have learned since not to do that - well, hardly ever…).

Through my indignation, I could hear the voice of reason, as my son, in a calm, but authoritative voice told me to get back into the car. Role reversal! I knew he meant it. He got out of the vehicle - (all 6’7” 250 pounds of him) and introduced himself to the guy in the truck. I watched from the rear-view mirror as the little guy in his big truck, momentarily humbled, slumped down into the seat. They exchanged a few words. My son got back into the car and we drove away in silence.

I can chuckle now recalling the incident, but, I learned that day that as much as my son would have my back he certainly was not going to ride shotgun with his Mama everyday!

I remember another occurrence that happened that left me conflicted. My son was playing on a high school basketball team and during half time he witnessed something in the locker room. I knew the minute he went back onto the court to resume playing that something was wrong. As we drove home after the game he confided in me that he had seen a boy breaking into a locker and he stole someone’s brand new, expensive shoes. I told my son that he had to go to the Coach the next day and let him know what had transpired. He said that wasn’t going to happen. The boy was a gang member. There would be retaliation - after-all, my son, was the only one that had seen the crime.

I was conflicted. It bothered me that this boy was not going to be accountable. What kind of lesson was this going to teach my son? We had another discussion. I was able to reinforce my belief in the concept of reaping and sowing or Karma as some may call it.

I prayed for that kid. I made a promise to my son that I would let it go. That same boy, tragically, a few years later, accelerated his crime sprees to murdering another young boy. I remember my son phoning me on his break. He had been doing a prison transfer and he saw that same boy incarcerated. I think about him often. How did this happen?

Years ago, when I was chauffeuring people around the city I remember retelling something I had heard on the news that morning to one of my passengers. It was a horrific accident - completely preventable. Many people were killed. The fellow responsible for the safety of those people, went to work stoned. I told my passenger that I could not believe that such a senseless act could happen. His remark has haunted me ever since. He said, “You assume conscience.”

I am a mom. I am a sister; a friend; a daughter and a wife. I live my life as best as I can. I am motivated and driven with the intent of doing what is right. I can see consequences before they happen and as a result switch gears, or go down different roads. I am getting better at it - sometimes. I can see how our actions create domino effects.

I recognize though, and sometimes painfully, that I am still under construction - even right now in my senior years. I have much to learn…

Is it wrong to expect?

My husband has navigated and quite successfully through his life without expectations. Maybe I should follow his lead… Maybe I should throw down the gauntlet, so, to speak, and give up in my pursuits of expectations. Maybe they ARE too high. Maybe, this is the year that I should not expect anything - especially after this past, challenging year.

… and then I think HECK NO! As long as I have breathe and the will to live I cannot live without expectations. I will always try to look for the goodness in my fellow human being.

The Serenity Prayer is a prayer written by the American theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. It is commonly quoted as:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

At a time when we are watching people perish by the hundreds, thousands and hundreds of thousands, it may be wise to take inventory of our own life's. We probably need to revisit, no matter how difficult it may be, our mortality. What does our legacy look like? What will we leave behind? How will our loved ones remember us. How will our neighbours remember us? Will the clerks at our local grocery store remember our faces, and the way in which we dealt with them?

I want to be remembered for my serenity, my courage, my wisdom, But mostly for my expectations because with expectations there is always a chance for HOPE!

May the road ahead bring you serenity, courage, wisdom and

hope - just don’t cut me off!

Told you it'd be at the other end of the spectrum lol.

Anyway, 3 shot cylinder, long hammer for extra leverage since the mechanism is quite stiff from having to be strong enough, handguard and recoil absorbance mini-ram to help stability and reduce bone breaking.

Three ammo types, normal round point, hollow point, and armour piercing.

Conceived in the passionate autunno caldo of 1938, i was born to spit up the shellac of Latin on my fetal tongue.

Maman, my great Maman, thrust me from her flesh cradle with an emphasis of her thick Haitian thighs - into the cool, patient fisherman-calloused hands on mon papa. As he swatted my tiny empennage, he tenderly hushed my blither with the sweet fermented rine of a melon, and by the setting of my first Caribbean sun, Maman was cooing delicious vodoun fables in time with the lazy metronome of her steel drum rocker. "What a

terrible baby you are, shaking inside your mama's belly like a Carnival boy; my insides are an atelier, not a dance hall...'

I passed years like stalks of field cane (striaght and sweet and green) wrapping my child-body in a naked pastiche of creole jazz, muddy-ankle football, and the innocent sexuality of rhythm. Lazy days of cacao and calico were spent on the fetid foreshore of our village unraveling papa's gnarled fly-nets; while the humid python-winding nights were swallowed by the pulsing rapture of cheap cane rum and the tongue-on-skin throng of voudon arousal. When the sun calmed the winds, mon papa would let me steer the skiff to the fishing beds; as he ate his supper bread and sipped grape wine, I would stand on the tenuous bow of the boat and wave to the far inching trawlers and fattened cargo-ships. I have the memories of a scattered, but happy, diarist; poplin-rough Sunday school clothes and the gangly flush of pubescence, maman's unnerving truth serum stare and the droning lisp of our beetle-faced cure'...and when my lean body first began to yearn for the wettened loggia of a woman's legs,

I was awkwardly depulced by the silly youngest daughter of a wild tonton-man, who though she was a few years beneath me wanted only to mustang-ride on top of me.

Haiti is a violent wealth of color cloistered in a vault of shadows; a green and grise' catafalque bedecked with bright ribbons and gimcrack liturgies, big generals, and little girls, a lethal coup poudre potion mixed in a cardinal-purple zuchetto - once, in the citron mist of waking, Maman mumbled, 'Come here children...come inside, my house is warm, I will feed you...'

A man will attempt to run from the mange of furies that burrow into his pores, but the Haiti-man alone can drown his vermin in the dank, muscular suffocation of his black magic voudon. It is a carnal intercourse of spine and cortex, making love in a large wrought-iron washtub, hand-bathed in a rotgut sweat of fermented slave tears and corrupt eucharist wine - by the naked hands of writing and coming, which have submitted their strong backs to the raw dictatorship of fear and adoration. Mon papa, tapping his inert, Papa-Doc old boat engine with a scarred bonig knife, said, voudon is like a magic carburetor, mixing an explosive solution of Haitian blood and spirit breath - a glazed smile for his own wit; and then, in a guarded sotto-voce, he whispered as beaten men do, 'Maman...has a great lord sleeping inside her breasts, and when he awakes...he treats her to a powerful feast; she can tell the future and smell your lies, bottle your ti bon ange soul in a gas can if she feels like it, or even make a man's backbone shake like a dying jellyfish...be afraid of Maman, but love her well.' Year later, Maman in her chicory-scented pinafore, rolled with laughter when I retold what our late papa had said. "That man...I miss his simple grin and his slow hands...Tonight we will dance for him; you, who fed on the outside of my breasts, and my 'great lord' who is suckling inside them. Papa will smile, no?'

At Pentacost, when the pursed black lips of the green island hummed dark Catholic hymns, I would pilgrimage off to the eastern most Dominican tip of the island and imagine that I could see past the scattered lily isles of the soul-bayou Caribbean over the ungenial Atlantique and onto the gelid farshore of Europe; meditating, scrutinizing over the gendarme-sneer of the French or even the gaspacho-gold face of the

Spanairds. The Europeans fascinate me. I can picture the finger-tip calculations of the the captivated servant trying to understand how to climb the stairs between himself and the master, yet they fascinate me more because their paths have been so intricately woven with ours. They branded us with their perversion of Christianity and salved the wounds with whiplashes; we are the gross-deformed bastard-cattle brood of Europa, who abandoned us we she learned that are too stong too die, yet simple enough to decay. I remember a rumor of a blade-quarted Paris-dandy who drank riotous amounts of cognac in the company of a grand Tonton Macoute and then quipped with a sodomist's tongue, 'Ce country is manque'...ha, an unfinished sewer, smell it ! That odor can only be from an ulcerous wound...'I must laugh here. I know that what we are must scare them; the alieness of our revery, the scathing depth of our intensity, the human-bright colors

of violence and treachery that we parade upon our chests like the general's ribbons. Maman said that all the European men should be cooked a bit longer 'their bellies are too tender, they cannot stomach the face-up-close crimes that we can commit - they were built for killing anonymously - big missiles, bureaucracies, and world wars; they dont have the pride of naked resolve to stare into the crevices of a man's eyes and wrest out his soul...Put them in my belly. I will cook them a little more, make 'em more real." Would terrify you? The too intimate suffocation of a bokor queen's flesh womb, gaging blind in a solution of her great lord's semen and the belly-warm blood of sa mare, ma mere? You would be forced to gape with boarding -school eyes upon a blistering fantastique that mocks your swollen insolence. Mind, you can frighten me too; I would be scared beyond myself if I were staked naked between the trenches of Sommes. Pardon me, I do not hate the European gens, but scrutinizing them is like the thick frustration of a child learning to somersault; one day, when my mind is beyond intrigue though, I will roll over my preoccupied thoughts of them as if a playful steel drum rolled down a steep hill.'Voudon is the religion of the cerebellum, an allegro-alfresco celebration of the primal mind that perches beneath the tangled fugue of the forebrain like a trap-door spider. As night chars the canvas of day, the Haiti people start to breathe more freely. We smile with the heady anticipation of an addict carressing a loaded needle in the moments that the sugar cane torches flickr alive and finger drums begin to rumble from rickety porches. I remember the creeping euphoria of feeling my skull becoming light and translucent, the intravenous drip of human alkaloids saturating my veins and vertebrae as the id of my passions secreted a narcotic sweat of expectation. You feel the itch of a nine-month pregnancy, the salavation of salvation...'

The angelus bells of the bokor draw us to their back-yard shacks, which they decorate in a whirl of colorful ideograms and homemade fetishes. Shirts undone and hemlines gathered up, bony chests and weathered chapeaux, we congregate like a brazen cabal, our tongues wagging in chirping mouths for the festivities to begin, to shed our sulking skin and dance nude in a soothing embrocation. Maman was a great bokor. She carried an infectious air of ebullience and pride, as if her eyes were saying can you believe that great things we will do tonight? She would enter the room with a corset of flunkies and a flowing train of petitioners; her hands touching the face of everyone present, laughing and smiling with them. She became a warm-blooded nucleus of a slowly, spiraling galaxy of children, she was Maman to everyone now. Here they called her La Chantelaine, mistress of the house.

The walls of the hovel, brown and tin and worn, would shake and quiver in the pulsing thrum of the swaying, wailing women and the driving beat of the drums. We danced in groups and couples and alone, smiling like pristine simpletons, letting the rhythm knead into us like a masseur's hands. Music is the riding rein of the soul; and the ever-rapid beat of our rhythms echo off the deepest ravines of our psyche, guiding the traveller inwards, through the dense strata of sharks of the upper brain, down into the cradle of the brain stem, where impulse and intuition are as inseperable as wave and light once were, pain and pleasure, sea and sun, woman and man. While voudon is the horse that carries us within, it has a deeper brilliance - the fierce embrace of total submission - as if a man who makes loves to his adored woman, his flaring tongue alive in the passion of realizing that he can go nowhere but inside his lover; he submits himself to the exploration of her depths, his body only a caisson, his soul a conspirator addcited to the narcosis of pilgrimaging inside the body of her spirituality. We, as a people, venture further in the bracing womb of archetypes, deeper into the mythic, yet nascent body of the great child unborn, than of any other people who can serioulsy claim to burrow into the flesh of understanding. Mon papa said we are dogs who can find their way home across a wild sea. This is true - we are suffering children who toil for penury, who sink in a slow misery - but it just may be us who will be blessed by the tears of Allah before the Mohamedans, our forgiving lips alone upon the weeping wound of Christ. I am not saying we are holier than you, only that we are much more human; our sins and sorrows are heavier weights upon our necks as we leap into the blue sea... You should pardon me when i gibber like this; in these later years I am learning to appreciate the breadth of my life, I no longer dwell upon its serated seams but adore the entire panorama; at times, my tongue is slower than my awe.

With the fear of crashing the crescendo of this story, I must tell you that I left behind my island of voudon dolls and emmigrated to the alleys of Paris. Maman died, poisoned. Papa was long dead, exhaustion. The Tonton Macoute wanted to cripple the informal oligarchy of the voudon queens; they would have snapped my back to break our lineage. I was forewarned with the brutality of Haitian subtlety; a black-painted disembowled kitten tossed on my doorstep like a newspaper (Maman was La Chantelaine, they teasingly called me Le Chat) and then after the swelter of a frightened week, they set fire to our house, to papa's old boat, to Maman's back-yard shack... I cried like an unsoothable baby until I reached the skirts of Port-Au-Prince, where I cleaned bilges on an Indochinese freighter for passage to France. I had no papers, no authorization. All I remember of the voyage were the long, rolling waves of fever that slept in my chest like a nervous rattlesnake. In Marseilles I stole down the anchorline of the ship and swam across the chilled harbor until I felt the sand bottom of beach under my feet, and then i melted into the city. After a month or so, I fell into the gravity of Paris.

There are many Haitians here, some wealthy, most nor. They showed me how to bribe the flic-policemen and to temper my slurring patois so its didnt hurt the sensitive ears of Paris. I found a cab to drive at night and a ten-body room to sleep in during the day. I stumbled into Saint-Germain one afternoon and drank coffee with a gabbing clique of student . They were amazed by the stories I told, probably found them charming, distracting. In return they gave me access to libraries and lectures and new thoughts. My mind seemed to grow from weeds into gardens. I began to write, paint a bit, make love to women in dusk-empty parks. I felt as if I were a cave dweller climbing foreign but delicious alps, shocked by the brightness of the sun and the limitless expanse of the sky.I learned to fish with a rod and reel. Some weekends I drop a line into the dirty Seine and ponder, my line bobbing for memories. When I think of my Haiti I cannot remember the people of the homes, they are like dry parchment paper, rather I see the cumulous balls of smoke lifting from papa's rosewood pipe or I smell the acrid resin of boiled candle wax and chicken entrails slipping from Maman's alchemist kitchen. More, I can still feel the reassuring constriction of voudon about my torso and tongue, as if i had been sewed into a new skin, one more alive, more luxuriant, more spohisticated than my own. Voudon made me fraternal brother of the gut; I lived like a wise homunculous, wild and alive, in the stomach of the human conspiracy. I know the grinding contortions of our hungers and the soothing coolness of our waters. My thoughts were simple peasants, knowing only the autocracy of impulse and the heady musk of desire. And on this far shore from my birth, I have discoverd that Time is like a scribbled blackboard running the breadth of your life, ever reteaching you lessons and exercises that you forgot or never understood. Now, living in the brilliantly glib pages of Paris, I have been given the luxury of contemplative distance to strip my ideology of voudon of its cosmologies and mythos, a sculptor leaning back for perspective, whitened chisel in hand. As if an elder son returning home to hold a father he can now better understand, I embrace voudon for its raw uniqueness, its power to shape our fears and tears back into a primordial clay, allowing us to reenact the passion drama of life and self-creation and death. While I am happy that no horsemen can ride my back now, I wince for children who can never escape from the gnawing brutality of fearing a lonely breathless night or who shirk form staring into the sun, never being able to spit up the bland, anonymous shellac of Latin upon their tongues.