View allAll Photos Tagged Calloused
Hundreds of New Yorkers dressed in white participated on a silent procession through the streets of New York on September 23, 2018 to focus the nation's attention on this callous and craven neglect of U.S. Citizens in Puerto Rico still struggling for survival in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria. Participants walked 2.5 miles in unity, and in silence; from East Harlem to Trump Tower. (Photo by Erik McGregor)
Abandoned child silently swept along a current of callous human race
between shabby buildings and filthy hotels hovels of the needy
and the dispossessed oblivious now soulless empty eyes unseeing
soiled windswept streets unfeeling lost emotions unheeding sirens
heralding another night of violence and death numb ravished soul
of stolen youth too weary to care.
~ Regis Auffray
Copyright Notice:
This photo has a copyright, any redistribution nor transmit or store it in any other website or other form of electronic retrieval is prohibited without express written permission from the owner. campsg photography
Callous are in bloom, adding a bit of color to the winter landscape. Photo by Robert Jordan/Ole Miss Communications
I Sit Upon My Throne of Whispers,
The Charlatan Ascended to a Regal Fool.
A Barbed Wire Crown is Wrapped Around My Skull.
His Gleaming Skin is Ridged with Crocodile Teeth.
I am Pestilence.
These Streets were Paved with Violence;
And Goliath, Above, Nurtured With Tears,
Stomps His Calloused Feet with Dismay,
Upon A Trickle of Pilgrims in White Robes,
Who Cry Anguish to Skeletal Monoliths.
Swollen Limbed, Shatter Brained Vagabond,
An Afterbirth Hung From The Umbilical Cord.
The Fear of Another Stillborn Dream.
My Reflection Devouring Itself in Monochrome.
Skin Taut, A Flesh Drum.
Gnawed by Regrets.
It Beats Away at Itself.
Howling at Amphetamine Moons:
Night after Night after Night after Night.
This amazing man has spent his life prostrating at the Great Stupa in Boudhanath, Nepal. The huge callous on his forehead is testament to this.
A barbed wire fence of callous and crude metallic form covets the outer perimeter of the landscape, defiant in it's stark contrast to the natural beauty that exists here, as if to scream out loud, 'This land is mine, keep out, walk on'. The last time I was here, a snooty young thing on horseback bombarded me with abuse for the invasion of her privacy by myself and my Nikon, when all I intended to capture was the divine symmetry and harmony of man and beast in full stride. But my mind is at odds with the warnings verbal and barbed, taking little heed as mindful feet tread cautiously off the beaten path and contented eyes fall upon a rural scene of lush pastures set against a backdrop of ancient ruins and history deep in this glorious landscape. I am knocking on Utopia's door and she seems happy to welcome me in as I stroll from the shady trees to sneak a closer look at the group of horses grazing on the plentiful grass. Gentle giants, noble keepers of the land, they stand many hands high and resplendent in the mud that they have so gratefully rolled and rubbed their flanks within on the moist ground prior to my arrival.
I'm euphoric in their presence, eyes adoring their shape and form as the leader of the pack saunters over with a fearless stance that his friends can only dream of possessing. Calm and assured, he checks me out and ponders the possibility of me offering up some morsel of food, a carrot or an apple perhaps. Warm flesh and fuzzy, soft mane mingle as, stroking his noble snout, I send those big beautiful brown eyes slowly to a land of dreams and slumber. Gently he nods his head as it lowers towards the ground, and these ties that bind us ignore the boundaries and rules of both man and fence as we two are one for an all too brief moment in time. Fingertips on fur, flesh on muscular flanks, not a word is shared as we bond and caress in blissful harmony. The other horses look on as the big fellow nuzzles my hand and bares his teeth as he samples the scent of this curious human before him.
The cotton wool clouds overhead, dance across the ocean blue sky as the warm sun rays beat down upon man and beast, the silence broken only by the sounds of Mother nature's calls. As the other horses slowly move along to fresh grass, this gentle leader follows me along the pathway a little, demanding more attention before finally walking slowly to his friends, in the respite sensing that food is in the offing as a lady from the stables arrives to walk him to the other field, he dutifully obeying her wishes and nodding his head as we part company. I depart the scene smiling broadly, saliva and fur covering my flesh and memories of a blissful moment or two when the cares of the world seemed so far away.
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Written April 28th 2011 Photograph taken on March 27th 2011 in Scadbury Park nature Reserve off the A222 Perry Road in Sidcup, Kent, England.
Nikon D700 120mm 1/60s f/11.0 iso200
Nikkor AF-S 24-120mm f/3.5-5.6G ED IF VR. UV filter. MetaGPS geotag
Latitude: N 51d 24m 13.61s
Longitude: E 0d 25m 23.79s
Altitude: 187m
Will they survive the horrendous and devasting catastrophe caused by this callous and greedy company? Such things should never happen no matter where in the world the rigs may be. With all the technology today and with so many advances, all precautions and resolutions should be in place so that something such as this would never take place. It's because of the indifference to the environment, the people and the glory to the almighty dollar/pound/yen/ etc that the precautions and solutions are not there. May God take mercy on the Gulf of Mexico, her inhabitants and all those along the shore.
I rarely go political on here, but this is such a travesty that, I am 99% sure, could have been avoided. If I have offended anyone, I apologize, but, I stand by my views. Thanks.
All rights reserved
As we slaughtered these uncaring masses,
with our callousness,
and with our spite
Mamiya C330
80mm f2.8
Fuji NPH 400
2,000 Verizon workers on strike, supporters and elected leaders marched to a Verizon Wireless office on Wall Street. Verizon workers remain on strike and are standing strong on the picket lines, executives refused to back off of callous proposals that would hurt working families and destroy middle class jobs, including shipping jobs overseas and outsourcing work.
© Erik McGregor - erikrivas@hotmail.com - 917-225-8963
These hands aren't the hands of a gentleman these hands are calloused and old
These hands raised a family these hands built a home
Now these hands raise to praise the Lord
These hands won the heart of my loved one and with hers they were never alone
If these hands filled their task then what more could you ask
For these fingers have worked to the bone
[ organ ]
Now don't try to judge me by what you'd have me be
For my life hasn't been a success
Some people have power but still they grieve
While these hands brought me happiness
Now I'm tired and I'm old and I haven't much gold
Maybe things ain't been all that I planned
Lord above hear my plea when it's time to judge me
Take a look at these hard working hands take a look at these hard working hands
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BABUSHKA - SNAPSHOT OF A KILLER (Chapter Six)
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Охотник, как охотник
HUNTER AS THE HUNTED
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Pavlovsky Posad, East Moscow Oblast
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Pausing briefly by the old boathouse in which nestled Sergei's beloved wooden hulled sail boat that he'd hand crafted over the course of his lifetime, now burned and gutted, a sight capable of making her true friend turn in his grave if he'd been afforded such a common courtesy.
Sergei's quietly elegant retreat in Pavlovsky Posad, Sixty eight kilometres from Moscow where the Klyazma and Vokhna rivers converged, now resembled a war zone as Tatiana's saddened eyes perused the debris and mayhem left behind by uncaring hands that had ripped through every nook and cranny in an attempt to find or disguise any morsels of information that might be useful once the man himself had been disposed of. Moments and memories shared in the ample grounds now ransacked and desecrated, tears and toil, happiness and love buried beneath the chaos that had reigned down in hands of betrayal and fury.
Stepping from the once beautiful stone walled gardens into the main body of the building, Tatiana's heart sank as her eyes witnessed the devastating fall out of the assault. Graffiti daubed walls and human excrement, a staged cacophony of poverty fuelled aggression that left her numb in all respects. The necessity of the act overshadowed Tatiana's natural guilt at sifting through the wreckage of her mentor's life, her eyes saddened by the carnage, and mind fixated with the knowledge that all we are or ever were can be gathered up and categorized into a series of storage boxes in the cold light of day.
Broken antique wooden picture frames with photographs shredded by callous fingers and strewn across the sumptuous deep pile carpets, hallway mirrors smashed and hanging by strands of their metal chains, glass shards seated jagged and proud laying siege to delicate flesh, tossed lace lampshades and drawers of emptied items all that was left of the two lives who once shared the space with love and unity. How Sergei's smiling face now haunted her conscience.
Tatiana knew the methodical methods utilized by her agency, and despite the feeblest of attempts to disguise the ransacking as mere wanton waste at the hands of opportunist thieves, she could spot the tell tale signs of professionals at work. The clinical precision with which key objects were discarded and destroyed, items left behind that any self respecting crack head could swiftly trade for cash on the black market, precious metals that could be melted down, and the neat pathway through the mayhem left by those trying just a little too hard to fool untrained eyes. Working expeditiously, she examined the minutia of details, searching in the locations only her peers would think to hide documents or clues that might lead her to the root of the betrayal. All the while, the hairs on the back of her neck were raised, a feeling in her gut telling her that something here was not right. No trip wires or booby traps, but the sensation of impending doom which gripped her like a vice.
Tatiana's sixth sense told her that, no matter what her eyes and ears were relaying back to her brain, she was not alone in the house, as stealthily she moved room to room, limbs primed, senses heightened all the while. Sniffing the air for subtle tones, she could almost smell the heady aroma of testosterone and adrenalin that coursed through the fibre's of the atmosphere as she examined every cubby hole, eyes and ears on full alert. A subtle indentation in the carpet, a red velvet curtain pulled to one side enough to facilitate watchful eyes on her arrival at the scene. The sound of drawing breath, a heartbeat or murmur, a tiny creak from the wooden floorboards, all were tell tale signs to one so skilful as she.
When the attack came, as swift as it was deadly, it was met with pent up aggression, frustration at the loss of her mentor and an inner anger that knew no bounds. The first hostile blows reigned down from above as dropping silently from the loft hatch on the second floor, a diminutive Asian female executed several perfect crescent kicks to Tatiana's legs before she could turn instinctive defence into unbridled attack.
Tatiana smiled wryly as she considered the scene like an episode from a Tarantino movie with the stereotyped ninja warrior screeching as she executed jumps and leaps of truly astounding acrobatic finesse. Grabbing her assailants right thrusting fist in her hand, she pulled the woman inwards, connecting with a head butt that instantly broke the attacker's nose. The audible sound of the impact was followed by blood flow and Tatiana's shoulders under the woman's outstretched right arm, which she twisted with enough speed and power to instantly dislocate at the shoulder. A piercing scream was ejected as the attacker was tossed aside like a broken rag doll at the hands of a petulent child, a second attacker entering the fray from her side.
Thick set, male Caucasian, one hundred and eighty pounds and sporting an oiled and pristine Beretta 92FS Elite aimed straight at Tatiana's face. Funny how she picked up on those tiny details in the heat of the violent confrontation, as gun oil permeated her nostrils, sparking memories as flashbacks, years of training until she could strip and clean, reassemble and fire her pistol accurately, blindfolded with ease. Instinctively, she turned away from the gun, using the terrified would be assassin as a shield as she hoisted her towards her body, ducking down behind the injured woman as the three rounds fired in quick succession tore into her flesh, killing her in a heartbeat. As the realization of what he had just done registered upon the man's face, Tatiana moved outwards from the dead woman's carcass, pushing her to one side and pulling her knife from the confines of her right boot, tossing it with the precision of a circus knife thrower straight into the man's left shoulder.
The man fired a reflex round as he reeled backwards in pain, his right hand still on the trigger and left hand holding the knife at the handle as he quickly pulled it out. Tatiana jumped and rolled to her right, behind the sofa which the attacker now peppered liberally with his Beretta, trying to pick her off through the array of leather, springs and soft stuffing now acting as a shield which exploded into the room like daisy wheel spores on a summer's day. Tatiana pushed her body quickly on all fours, leaping into the kitchen room adjacent to her position.
Before she had time to think, the attacker was at the kitchen door, a fresh magazine pushed into place, locked and loaded with a defining clunk as the old one unclipped and found release in the velvet softness of the deep pile carpet. Tatiana came in lower than a snakes belly, and faster than a speeding locomotive, lashing out a carefully aimed foot which buckled the man's left leg and had him falling to the ground as she kicked again and dislodged the pistol from his grip, sending it flying into the air until it eventually came to rest in the corner near the wine fridge which held captive a dozen bottles of exquisite Champagnes.
The pair traded jabs and punches as they writhed on the kitchen tiled floor which was cold to the touch as flesh caressed it's sinews and limbs entwined in the deadliest of embraces. The power struggle was fierce and long as trained bodies grappled and groped, finely matched, fingers searching for bodily orifices to use in the game of one one-one-upmanship. Held in a headlock, sweaty palms fighting to contain the venom of her anger, Tatiana briefly broke free with a swift upwards punch to the man's head which allowed her a second to rise before a bony clenched fist impacted squarely with her face, sending her reeling backwards across the floor like a rag doll before she hit the wooden work units that had been pulled apart, their contents strewn across the floor all around her. The seering pain was intense and unrelenting.
As the man turned and reached for the pistol, his hand luxuriating in the satisfaction of metallic euphoria as it fell into his hand, Tatiana's eyes and hands were unified in agreement as she gathered up a poultry boning knife that lay near it's peers by the broken wooden Sabatier knife block that had been thrown down during the vigorous search earlier on.
A knife versus semi automatic pistol, the flick of the wrist against the sweet expelation of metallic brutality and both parties unleashed their weapons of choice. The boning knife impaled itself deliciously into the man's heart, his eyes temporarily glancing up before they glazed over, his hand caressing the handle as the finality of his last breath dawned upon a troubled mind. Lights out, his carcass crumpling into a heap at Tatiana's feet. But this pro was quick, loosing off a single slug which raced through the air at breakneck speed on a downwards trajectory that ended as it ripped through Tatiana's flesh, pulsating with fire and venom as it expelled through the back of her right arm, just above her elbow. She allowed herself the indulgence of a stunted yelp as the piercing pain came over her, knowing instantly that she needed to compress the exit and entry points and stem the trickle of rich ruby life blood if she was to make good her exit from the scene and live to fight another day.
Ripping a section of soft white cotton from the shirt of the dead body lying beneath her, she noted that the wound was relatively clean, the heat of the bullet having practically cauterized the wound in the violence of the act itself. Moving quickly into the living room just to her left, she located the drinks cabinet, glass fronted, a plethora of expensive bottles of varying colour liquids pulled and pushed from the neatness of their original locations, several smashed with carpet stains that lay interfused with aromas and concoctions not yet discovered by the partying elite. A partially opened bottle of Glenfarclas Single Highland Malt fell into her grasp, as, removing the lid with her teeth, spitting it onto the carpet in most unceremonious fashion, Tatiana liberally poured the contents across the small wounds front and back on her arm before wrapping the cloth strip around her flesh with her left hand, tying off the two ends as tight as she could bare before returning to the corpse of the first assailant.
Hand rifling through trousers and shirt faster than a pick pocket in Cairo on a summers day, she swiftly moved onto the dead woman's body, coming across a small cardboard envelope in which were housed a series of covert colour photographs that she studied each in turn. Two men, a bland hotel room, friendly handshakes and smiling faces. An outside shot from a French themed bar with figures at a table sipping grandiose coffee, shades on a overcast day, image angled from a distant balcony with a powerful telephoto.
Several other images portrayed similar meetings, different clothes, alternate dates, one constant amongst the details. What the hell was Dmitri doing in each of the frames. The final document in the cardboard wallet was a folded piece of white A4 paper detailing dates and transactions from a bank account of sorts. Large figures, reoccurring noughts, regular payments and a fat balance with scribbled observations noting withdrawal amounts and end user accounts in handwriting that Tatiana little recognised.
Her ears pricked up at the sound of a vehicle pulling to a less than conventional halt outside the house by the North entrance. Tyres squealing their protest and several doors opening at speed, had her at the window tucked to one side behind the expensive shades, eyes perusing the four burly men who climbed out, high end Italian leather shoes kissing the warm tarmac, hands adjusting jackets behind which sat holsters and guns. Tatiana moved quickly into the hallway, locating a stairwell cupboard in which was located the neat pipework for the gas supply which she loosened until the sound of the escaping gas greeted her ears. Door open, she entered the kitchen and grabbed a thick magazine from the pile thrown all over the floor.
In the corner on the worktop, a silver metallic toaster, four slice, pristine like every appliance in the house. Inserting the wall plug into the socket, she flicked on the power, pushed the folded magazines into two of the slots and depressed them as the bars heated to a red glow.
Making her way to the opposite door, she headed quickly out, leaving the magazines to begin burning as the intensity of the heat rapidly grew. Directly in her pathway came one of the hoodlums, a smart-ass who had taken the initiative to cut off any exit by the fleeing target. Somewhat taken aback by his fortuitous move, none the less pistol raised and intent obvious as he smiled, relishing the prospect of taking full credit for the kill. Tatiana stopped in her tracks and carefully placed a shell between his eyes without thinking. A gun placed in her weakest of hands was still a match for even the most opportune of opponents. Action and instinct in it's purest form. Placing a shoe soul onto freshly executed flesh, she walked across the dead man and made good her escape.
As she made her way from the scene she heard the explosion as the intruders unwittingly entered the front door, allowing oxygen to dance a delicious tango with the flames and gas that rose in the mix. Soon, she was away like a ghost, a million questions on her mind, tainted by doubt and with a need for answers to satisfy her natural curiosity. Behind her, the bodies char grilled like a Sunday afternoon barbecue.
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Rewritten in July 2011.
Original story penned in August 2010.
Photograph taken on May 25th 2011 in the grounds of Scotney Castle, Tunbridge Wells, Kent, England.
Nikon D700 50mm 1/125s f/4.0 iso200
Nikkor 50mm f/2.8. UV filter. MetaGPS geotag. Latitude: 51 7\'16.65"N Longitude: 0 13\'33.93"E
Swaziland.
Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary
The warthog is mainly a grazer and has adapted an interesting practice of kneeling on its calloused, hairy, padded knees to eat short grass. Using its snout and tusks, it also digs for bulbs, tubers and roots during the dry season.
Balanced! Can't resist log walking. An old branch holds so may textures to enjoy under bare soles. Rough bark, soft moss and decaying wood all feel amazing!
I became lazy at breakfast and did not eat my hard-boiled egg. Stunned at my callousness, Katie adopted the egg as her son, named him "Elmer", gave him a face, and tucked him into the kleenex box in the room. For the next three days.
I was told by our dive guide that this is the type of starfish that harlequin shrimp like to feed on, so I checked everyone I found for nibble marks, but didn't find a single shrimp.
View on grey or black with B l a c k M a g i c