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Nemam is a beautiful agricultural village on the outskirts of Chennai on the way from Poonamallee to Tiruvallur. The place is well known for its Shivan and Perumal temples.
Located at the Poonamallee Taluk in the Tiruvallur district, Nemam has the fourth largest lake in the Tiruvallur district, the general activity being fishing.
Agriculture and brick-making are the basic source of employment for the people of Nemam. The primary crop cultivated is paddy and the subsidiary are Groundnut, Banana and Coconut.
Copyrights © Kals Pics - 2014. All Rights Reserved.
No graphic comments please
The Bluebird Theater off Colfax Ave. Denver, CO
Also in my Neon Sign Collection
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The Zebra Line ~ Urban Chronicles ~ Paris ~ MjYj
Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other
media without my explicit permission.
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Thanks everyone, thanks for all the votes,comments,
visits, support, critics, invites, awards, etc ...
A handful against million demons.Righteousness the Passion.Ruthless Aggression.Limbs being Cut down.But the Lions won't bow down.In the middle of the fray.Still they pray.They let a JAI KARA out...and the demons turn-about.
-Battle Chronicles.A Warrior-Saint's life history.For rest..Its a mystery!
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ਨਮੋ ਸ੍ਰੀ ਭਗੌਤੀ ਬਢੇਲੀ ਸਰੋਹੀ॥
ਕਰੇਂ ਏਕ ਤੇ ਦ੍ਵੈ ਸੁਭਟ ਹਾਥ ਸੋਹੀ॥
Namo Sri Bhagauti Badaiyalee Sarohee.
Karay Ek te Dvay Su-bhatt haath sohee.
- Sri Bhagauti Astotar
Guru Gobind Singh Jio Maharaaj
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Tvay Prasaad!
Well i was longing to take self portraits for a long time...so finally yesterday ended up doing this.
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Big Thanks to Bogna..You are such an inspiration!
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Akaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Praça Mahatma Gandhi stands on the exact spot of the demolished Palácio Monroe, now a lifeless empty square with a dry fountain.
Thick as Thieves Tattoo Parlor off Colfax Ave. You can take the bus home to recover from getting tagged.
Denver, CO
HI FLICKR!! I feel like it's been ages.This photo is from disturbingly long ago. And it took forever to edit, because i feel like i've forgotten how to use photoshop. But i digress...
I've decided (well back when this was taken) that if people are going to keep leaving furniture outside of my apartment building, then i will keep taking photos of myself ON said furniture, and i will have a little series of images of me and my sidewalk, and abandoned living room furnishings. I was so set on the idea when it popped into my head that i even went through with it despite the sidewalk people that unfortunately came with the whole setup. Although the walking guys weren't nearly as bad as the dicks in the jeep that kept driving around the block so they could say stupid shit out their window. Thanks for the headlights that made this shot possible dicks-in-the-jeep!
Now i am off to catch up on everyone's pictures, and various other interweb happenings.
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Chronicles of lifting Light :
Tales from The Poet and the Peasant
There is a certain daring “edge” in acting out a role playing game on a partner(s) in public, especially if (in our case) one favors pickpocketing.
It’s a certain adrenaline thrill, both addictive and desirable, that increases up until the “mark” is relived of one or more of her dangling valuables. Whether its carried out with a simple bump, a lift conveyed while, say dancing, or a squeeze play maneuvered with a second player, it all creates and holds a level of excitement most thrilling in its nature, quite erotic within its scope.
This Chronicle contains short essays on pickpocketing games played solely within our group over the past few years.
These were games only, done with full knowledge and consent of all the players ( with a couple of exceptions where the parties involved were not informed of the actual happenings until sometime after the fact.)
Any articles of jewelry lifted were returned to their original owners, albeit sometimes those owners at first thought the jewelry being returned had just simply fallen away.
The actual facts have been stretched, padded and enhanced, due primarily to the significant detail that I rather like those in my immediate circle, and in order to keep them liking me, have agreed to “put meat on the bone” so to speak, when putting pen to paper.
This journal is far from complete, and additional stories will be added as they are played out.
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The “Poet and the Peasant” Is a little backwater pub owned by Brian’s Aunt and Uncle. It’s a laid back place, music (mostly canned) , the usual caste of regulars ,Including us, and a generous section of ales and other “demon” drink.
The pub is housed in an ancient old building with all sorts of old Victorian era objects, found and given a home in the pub’s numerous nooks and crannies. Including the skull of poor Erik. Erik was a 17th century poet and balladeer who supposedly was beheaded for making several torrid lyrics about a certain Saxon king. His grinning skull sits high up in a shelf along a balustrade, usually with a cigar clamped in his jaws. Couldn’t tell how many times someone who had more than his fill of drink has tried to light it for the poor blighter. The pub is a regular howl around Halloween, thanks to Erik, who has obtained quite a degree of notability, despite being dead for all these long years.
Basically, Erik aside, the “Poet and the Peasant” is a great place to hang out and make plans with a pint in hand.
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Opening Act
Atonement
We were heading to a small resort that we once had stayed at for a wedding and reception. It was Just “Ginny” and I on a 4 day escape from reality. We were passing through one of the small towns on the way, when Ginny spotted a dress shoppe, with several mannequins wearing evening frocks. She had to stop, we had a function the next month and she had “nothing to wear”( Liar I thought grinning).
We went inside and on a “gently worn” rack she pulled out this long string sleeved satin number and tried it on. The young clerk said it was patterned after the one in the movie atonement ( which neither of us had seen) but its rich deep green( Irish green the clerk called it, which I really had no idea was a colour) really set off Ginny’s long copper hair, and I liked the way her hair laid down her bare backside.
We arrived at the resort in early afternoon and claimed our suite( paid for by an anniversary gift) and set out to explore the place. The resort was packed, and we found out that there were 2 evening wedding receptions taking place on Saturday. An Idea began to take seed and as we walked I found a way to bring it into conversation.
Ginny had brought her rhinestones ( see Album Chronicles of lifting Light, B) for a bit of date roleplay in our suite some chosen evening of our stay. I suggested that she should give her gown and the rhinestones a try in public. Where she asked? I than laid out my game plan and a smile crept across her face, lit up by the sun poking through the trees on the wooded path we had been walking. Ginny liked to dress up, and I used that trump card to my advantage.
At around 5pm I slipped into the larger of the two receptions (crashed if you like) and wondering over to the bar I got a drink and waited, nursing it. I was reasonably presentable in a suit jacket, slacks, silk shirt and satin tie. As I waited I found myself pretty much unnoticed, which was a far cry from what Ginny encountered when she cautiously entered about fifteen minutes later, green gown swirling, rhinestones all a glitter. It didn’t take long for the sharks to start circling. One lad started a conversation, and I watched her squirm a little, before putting my drink down and coming to my damsel’s rescue. I had to literally peel the bloke away from her. We went onto the dance floor, pretending like we had never met. As we danced through several songs I could tell by the look in Ginny’s eyes that she was feeling the same fire within that I was. Ready for part 2 ? I asked, she got a surprised look in her eyes, and began to check herself, uh uh I said, not till we leave. We went out together; I spied the bloke watching us from a table, and smirked to meself over his look of frustration.
Outside we started to walk along the promenade, joining along with several other ladies, charming in their in gowns and frills, with their tuxedoed escorts, escapees all of us from the receptions. Ginny felt exceptionally good as, with my arm around her, she cuddled into my side while we walked some distance. But our bliss was not long, when Ginny , looking back, said there was a hotel security cop heading our way. Damn I thought, pinched for crashing the reception.
The rent-a-cop came up to us, and placing a firm grip upon my shoulder(or tried, I was a good foot taller, where do they find these blokes?) talked directly to Ginny. Everything alright then Miss, he questioned Ginny, trying to sound professional, and he almost pulled it off, except he squeaked on the word Miss.
Why yes, officer Ginny said, pouring on the charm( which is a quite frightful weapon in her capable hands), thank you for your lovely concern, but why do you ask? I received a report that this man may have been bothering you, Ma’am he said , no squeaks this time. He looked at me, I just grinned back at him, waiting for Ginny to belt it out of the park. She smiled, her green eyes brite, and laying a hand on the “officers” chin, told him how adorable his concern was for her safety, but her husband and she made sure he saw her ring, is really not that much of a bother most of the time. Husband he started, than stopped, caught his embarrassment nicely, then tried to save it, but Miss, I heard you had lost a necklace.
Whatever reaction he had hoped by saying this, it was not the one he got. Oh that, she said, the clasp broke, so my husband took it for safe keeping, really, where would I have put it, and she stepped back and let him look her over for evidence of supporting her statement. Game, Set and Match, I smirked to myself!
With the way she looked in that satin gown, and her charm at full output, no mere mortal male would have been able to stand a chance. Well, he choked out, all’s good then isit, and releasing my shoulder; he turned heel, and walked off hurriedly, like a scolded puppy with its tail between its legs. Ginny giggled, well played I told her, well played. And, again with my arm around her and Ginny cuddling in, we continued our stroll, with Ginny letting out the occasional chortal of laughter over the whole incident.
We reached an overlook over the lake, where a pair of swans was meandering about. A young lady in a long white dress with a glittering bracelet around one wrist, was walking along the path that edged along the lake. The swans were near her, reminding me of a tele commercial I had seen long ago ( If anyone else remembers it please leave a comment).
Ginny caught me looking, wanna do the path luv, she whispered with in a most beguiling manner. We did so, and eventually found a rather isolated little nook behind a hedge grow. Here I will have to leave to the readers imagination what transpired there, for the only witnesses were the two of us, and a rather surprised chippy who crawled out of his hole for a gander…
On our way back we once again stopped at the overlook. Time to tally up I said. Ginny smiled and opening her purse pulled out a scrap of paper. She showed it to me, on it was written the word necklace. Lucky guess, did you feel me take it I asked. Of course she lied; I could have done it better. Wanna bet I teased. Maybe someday we’ll see she responded. Now the way the game worked was that I pretended to be a light fingered jewel thief, with my eyes on the lady in green’s jewels. It was my objective to lift a piece of Ginny’s jewellery some point in the evening..
Ginny agreed to it on the condition that beforehand she would write down a piece of jewellery on a piece of paper, if it matched the piece I had lifted, than I could decide what we would do the next evening, if not, she would decide. So later, as we had a few drinks in a nearby pub ( still dressed in “costume”) I (the winner) outlined the plans for the next evening.
So the following evening, after a rather nice feast by the fireplace in the resorts great room, we found ourselves once again in a bar ( this time the resorts lounge). I was wearing the same suit, and had Ginny’s purloined necklace in my jacket pocket. Ginny was wearing a black satin blouse, ¾ sleeved, with long white and blacked stripped skirt. She wore her gold jewellery, and her long hair was up, held by rhinestone clips. At one point she excused herself to the loo, and when she returned took the chair next to me, and started to come on to me. I played along and after a few drinks, and dances, she led me out to the lobby.
Making way outside to the long wooden walkaway of the promenade, we began our way along it. Finding an isolated bench, we began to make out, as if we were strangers who had just met. After a long (glorious) while, we stood( wobbly) and made our way down to the lake, and continued our light petting.
At one point Ginny stopped, and looking me in the eye, said, well sir, its been fun, but id better go. Immediately I patted my pocket, the necklace was gone. Naughty I said, distracting me on the bench hussy, I teased. Her eyes got a gleam, follow me she said. We retraced our steps, hand in hand, and she led me to the the bench, and then surprisingly passed it. We regained the lobby, and she stopped by a corner, where a larger fern like plant sat in a rather big ceramic pot. Reaching in, she pulled out the necklace. Very good I said, never felt you take it.
So, I win then, she smirked. Yes I agreed, I had guessed wrong by thinking she had picked my pocket on the bench. So let’s go an collect me winnings then, sir, she ordered me, her eyes large and hungry. As we made our way I tried to get her to tell me when she had lifted the necklace, but she just placed a secret little smile on her lips, and remained silent on the subject….
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Act 2
Squeeze Play
Anyone who has taken the bother to riffle through my earlier Chronicles of Lifting Light, knows I have a twin sister who at times past has been my foil to practice upon. Well, I will leave it up to you to decide who the foil was in this tale.
We were all hanging out at the pub (“Poet and the Peasant” of course) one evening, the four of us, being the silly selves that mid- twenties youth are prone to being, especially when alcohol is involved.
We were trying to drink away the memories of what our previous week of work had given us, and were well on our way to meeting that objective, when a song from the band Cold Play come on. Ginny had asked my sister who it was, and instead of answering right away, she gave something a bit of thought, then my sister started smirking. Cold Play, like squeeze Play , remember “Ginny?”
Both Girls just started giggling, “Brian” just got a sullen look at the memory, and I, I just reflected…..
In our University years, my sister worked part time for a company that raised funds for charities, like OXFAM, etc. Among the various types of events were a couple of “Black Tie” affairs that I enjoyed because it gave Brian and I the chance to escort my Sister and Ginny ( the girls ever beautiful in fancy dress) to attend them.
Now, my sister had this co-worker,”Shiela”, who was absolute vinegar to my sister’s honey, hell, she was vinegar to any pretty female’s honey! She was a squawker, a squealer, and a backstabbing slag, in other words, not a very nice girl atoll. She was also was twice divorced from wealthy young scions who could not spot a gold digger for the life of them until they had been broadsided along the head with her gilded shovel.
During one warm late Autumn we were attending one of the Charity Dances being held in the big city proper. They had a pair of bands lined up, one kind of a Disco’ish throwback, and for later, a proper one that played a more romantic beat, one that called for slow dancing. The Girls were more into the Disco then we males were( a feeling that affected most of us in attendance) and the floor was flooded with a gaggle of swishing dresses and gowns dancing and swirling around to the frantic beat of the music, all performed with swirling lights in the darkened, smog filled dance floor, while the guys just sat around enjoying the show being put on.
As Brian and I watched the provocative females on the floor dancing, we noticed that our girls were slowly moving out amongst the throng of pretty dancers, rather than maintaining one area. Soon they had moved next to “Shiela”, who was dancing with this cousin of hers. Now I found this surprising, because Sis and Ginny had been throwing daggers with their eyes at “Shiela” all evening. She had been sitting with her wealthy new boyfriend, who was always bending to her demands, as evidenced by the expensive new finery she was sporting, which really had gotten a certain Twins goat. So it was with some puzzlement that when her cousin took a breather, Ginny and my twin slipped in to take her place, moving in rhythm with the now quite intoxicated “Shiela”.
Sis was facing “Shiela” and Ginny was behind her, all three of them gyrating their arms, hands and most of their other body parts in motion, up down and all around each other , so close at times that you would have had an effort at squeezing a hand between them.
What’s that pair up to now? Brain questioned me, as if I had a hand in it, I just shook my head, knowing only that I wanted to be in the middle of that sandwich instead of “Shiela”, but as it turned out, good thing I wasn’t.
We watched as the long song went on, with its deep bass beat that almost sounded like it had been lifted from some horror flick. Ginny and Sis continued to revolve, twist and swirl around the guileless “Shiela” as their colourfully brite (slinky) dresses shimmered in a most provocative fashion, bathed as they were caught by the dimly lit, smoke filled, dance floors blue strobes. A few times “Shiela” seemed to lose her footing, and fell against my Sister, who I thought took it surprisingly well as she gently steadied her foe.
Then the song ended, and all three girls laughed and giggled, actually hugged one another. I heard Brian letting out an chiding snort, I , well I was still just mesmerized by the whole act. Ginny and My Sister than walked the slightly dizzy “Shiela” back to her table, even going so far as to help her set down, before turning and heading back to our table. Both of them wearing chuff grins like the kittens that had eaten the canary.
Wotcher?, said Brian questioning their look. Oh God I thought, knowing the answer, for I had been watching “Shiela” as the girls had left and approached. My sister, looking around, held out her hand and opened her fist. There, all balled up and glittering, was the expensive diamond pendent of the set of matching diamonds that “Shiela” had been flaunting about to everyone all evening.
Brian Jumped all over the two, giving them quite the bollocking, “games we played on each other was one thing, but what you pair had done was wade into some very dangerous waters indeed”! So what’s next I chimed in, and by the looks on their heavily made-up faces realized the silly twits hadn’t thought of that end. We hastily discussed the matter, knowing that time was anything but on our sides. Finally Brian took it from my admonished(seemingly) twin, and marching it up to the disc jockey, had him make an announcement describing what his “sister” had found in the loo.
“Shiela”, whom we all had been watching, let out a shriek as her hands flew groping to her chest in fruitless examination, jumped up and immediately claimed it, or tried to as the Jocky had a little bit of fun with it first. “Shiela” and her haplessly star struck Beau, were so hopping mad at the Jocky, they pretty much gave no thought as to how the pretty thing actually had been lost in the first place. This was a lucky break for a couple of girls, who still sat their smugly smiling, as Brian tried in vain to continue scolding them. Me, I just looked at the twittering pair, wondering, pondering thoughts of me own.
Now it wasn’t until a couple of years later on the night my sister made the remark about the cold play song that the girls felt comfortable talking a bit more about the incident .And before Brian could listen without tabooing the subject. And it was then that I learnt how the pair of them had managed to take the diamonds from “Shiela”
It turned out the two had had no real plan, just that they had been discussing “Shiela” between themselves and had been debating over how fun it would be to knock her down a peg or so. One of the scenarios presented was to have her be given the shock of losing a piece of her expensive jewelry, and they even discussed bringing me into the fold, but thought better of it.
Although I am not sure if I would have taken them up on it, but since then I have thought out different ways I would have approached the problem, both by myself, and with the girls help. Although I wouldn’t have tried for the necklace, I figured her ring or bracelet would not have been beyond my scope of achievement. Although, with the girls help…….
Anyway they finally decided to try it themselves, after all how hard could it be to take, say a cocktail ring from “Shiela’s” sweaty finger as she was dancing away on the crowded floor?
They decided to join in the dance and get close to “Shiela” and if an opportunity arose, my sister was to signal Ginny by rubbing a finger alongside her nose to bump against “Shiela”, pushing the hapless B… into me devious twin. It was Ginny who came up with the name “squeeze play”, because I once had grasped and squeezed her from behind, removing her ring in the process.
Now “Shiela” was wearing what I guess is called an A-line gown, where her front was totally covered by the gowns shiny material, no gloves, just sweat glistened skin. As they moved in on “Shiela” Ginny took position behind, while Sis took the front, and at one point laid a hand upon “Shiela’s” shoulder, “Shiela” did likewise as they swayed to the deep rhythmic beats. Sis tried to grasp “Shiela’s” free hand, the one where she was wearing a diamond cocktail ring, but she kept missing. In the process she realized that the hand she had placed on her victims shoulder was almost touching the thick gold chain of her nemesis’s necklace, which held the diamond pendent that was bouncing about.
Looking “Shiela” directly in the eyes she began to work the necklace along as they danced, until her fingers felt the clasp. It was lobster clasp, similar to one my sister had on the emerald necklace Brian had given her. Sis gave it an exploratory push, and it surprisingly opened under her fingers. Startled at what had happened, she forgot the signal, and nodded to Ginny, who plowed into the hapless “Shiela’s” backside, as my sister felt “Shiela” fall against her. She whisked off the necklace with one hand, while steading the giggling “Shiela” with her other. Backing away she placed both hands behind her back as “Shiela” turned to receive Ginny’s apologies. Sis balled up the chain in one hand, holding it tightly closed for the remainder of the dance. They helped “Shiela” back to her table, my Sister placing the fist holding the necklace alongside her victims back as they helped guide the still giggling “Shiela” to a seat.
Walking away, my Sister thought that it had been almost scary how easily it had been to open the clasp and pluck off the necklace. It shouldn’t have been, she kept telling herself, but she knew it was, for she had the evidence in her hand, and she was not even close to ever being a professional about such things. My twin has said that afterwards that it had given her a lot of perturbed thoughts when wearing any good jewelry of hers in public, (particularly her emeralds with the Lobster clasp) and finds herself on occasion still doing spot checks whenever she has been brushed by someone. But then, I think we all do on occasion, knowing the kind of games we like to play.
So as one can see, overall ,this is a rather touchy subject to tackle. But there was no denying that Sis (and Ginny I suspect) were proud of their accomplishment at the time. It was almost like my twin was trying to impress upon me that I was not the only one with light fingers. A subject that, trust me, has been, and will continue to be explored down a sometimes crooked “garden” path.
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Anyone who has read Chronicles B knows that Ginny and Brian both received the upcommence for the manner in which they had gotten my sisters got at the wedding reception. But as for me, she waited a bit, biding her time, for like the proverbial elephant( which she has a bit of a collection) my twin does not forget.
Upcoming :
And revenge is a dish best served cold.
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In Appraisal
I do highly encourage anyone who has read my chronicles,( or looked at the clips below) and on the off-chance may actually have been entertained by them, and would like me to divulge more of our tomfooleries , to please leave behind a comment expressing that point.
Thank You
Food for thought:
Jewelry lifting Clips
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HAZdjhNVjxk&authuser=0
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ls8rw2V1QCU&authuser=0
www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RbLiI9ZFQ8&authuser=0
www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XZ8s-R9vl4
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofodSjKQ_-8
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Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives
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DISCLAIMER
All rights and copyrights observed by Chatwick University, Its contributors, associates and Agents
The purpose of these chronological photos and accompanying stories, articles is to educate, teach, instruct, and generally increase the awareness level of the general public as to the nature and intent of the underlying criminal elements that have historically plagued humankind.
No Part of this can reprinted, duplicated, or copied be without the express written permission and approval of Chatwick University.
These photos and stories are works of fiction. Any resemblance to people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.
As with any work of fiction or fantasy the purpose is for entertainment and/or educational purposes only, and should never be attempted in real life.
We accept no responsibility for any events occurring outside this website.
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Nemam is a beautiful agricultural village on the outskirts of Chennai on the way from Poonamallee to Tiruvallur. The place is well known for its Shivan and Perumal temples.
Located at the Poonamallee Taluk in the Tiruvallur district, Nemam has the fourth largest lake in the Tiruvallur district, the general activity being fishing.
Agriculture and brick-making are the basic source of employment for the people of Nemam. The primary crop cultivated is paddy and the subsidiary are Groundnut, Banana and Coconut.
Copyrights © Kals Pics - 2014. All Rights Reserved.
No graphic comments please
Là ou l'espace urbain porte des messages invisibles dans l'immensité informative du cloud. Where urban space carries invisible messages in the informative immensity of the cloud
Copyright © by John Russell – All Rights Reserved
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The Whiteboard Chronicles: The 1312 to Everywhere x Solution V.
Urban Chronicles ~ MjYj
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Urban Chronicles ~ MjYj
Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other
media without my explicit permission.
MjYj© All rights reserved
Thanks everyone, thanks for all the votes,comments,
visits, support, critics, invites, awards, etc ..
Looking like the magical lamp post from the Chronicles of Narnia, Dallas Streetcar 303 waits at the one-lamppost Union Station stop. Dallas Union Station is in the background.
Barely visible is the car's pantograph, which is raised to re-charge the battery here. The operator will have to lower it before departing, as the overhead wire only exists on the out of service track that leads down to DART track, but the track on the bridge over the Trinity River is wireless.
Mother Nature keeps meticulous records of her actions in a multi-stratum archive. She also creates the forces of erosion that open these geologic pages to those who know how to read the language that they are written in. After several chapters of this colorful chronicle it is hard to put the book down!
This photo was taken by an Asahi Pentax 6 X 7 medium format film camera and Super-Multi-Coated Takumar/6X7 1:4.5/75mm lens with a Zenza Bronica 82mm L 1A filter using Fuji Pro 400-H film, the negative scanned by an Epson Perfection V600 and digitally rendered with Photoshop.
Screen-grab from a four-minute compilation of 1960s Glasgow transport scenes. The Glasgow Corporation Crossley-bodied BUT trolleybus is one of a large batch new in 1958 and is passing the Glasgow Street/Stockwell Street junction, topped and tailed by a Morris Minor 1000 and a Ford Zephyr 4. A scruffy BMC J4 van heads northwards. Glasgow was the last UK city to introduce trolleybuses, in 1949. The type did not earn the same affection that Glaswegians had for their beloved "Caurs" (trams), which the trolleybuses only outlasted by less than five years before their demise in 1967. Indeed, the city's many cyclists nicknamed the trolleybuses "Silent Death" - a sobriquet that applied in other UK cities at the time.
I estimate that this view dates from 1965. I think the railway in the background is the old Glasgow & South Western Railway line out of St. Enoch station, which closed in April 1966.
No flaming guys, this is to chronicle the damage/repair process. You never know when you might have to refer to this after your dog gets ahold of a doll.
Who doesn't love something for free?
Christmas time is a time for giving. I have decided to gift my ebook to any and all interest during this time.
For those who have read my book, thank you for the positive feedback. For those who haven't, here is your chance!
If you could leave an honest review on Amazon, I would really appreciate it. Many thanks and Merry Christmas!
** This picture is compiled from various paid photo sources, it is a compilation of photos and an online book template. This is simply an advert of my other passion and hobby, promoting a free gift**
Chronicle Books office - San Francisco.
to see the full tour visit http:/grainedit.com
c2008 grain edit
The Bicylcle Chronicles by selrahcyrogerg
Chapter Four…The 1939 CCM Flyte
This is a pretty fresh story. On 9 August 2018 while Facebooking, looking at the jumbo of bicycle sites I belong to, I saw a photograph of what was undoubtedly a ratty CCM Flyte bicycle chained to a cast iron church fence. The writer from the UK said he had seen the bike while on vacation with his family in Quebec Canada just recently. For some the Flyte is considered to be the Holy Grail of Canadian bicycles. I was immediately stirred to react. For quite some time, I had been aware of the allure of the Flyte and its status with Canadian collectors, some of whom I had met in the course of my bike experiences. The first Flyte I saw in person was hanging in a shop called Ideal Bike in Belleville Ontario, a friend of mine Craig Jervis worked there as a mechanic. I met the owner Ed who told me the Flyte was on display courtesy of Ken Martin who had several of these bikes including some early serial number models. Up there, on the shop wall, far away perhaps with a light shining on it, the two toned bike with the curled fork and curled seat stays was and remains an awesome sight. I think there is a photo of that encounter which I will muster for the photo section of this story. Later that same year, it was fall 2017 I came across a man in Kingston via Kijiji who was selling a genuine blue and cream Flyte in pretty fair condition, this was Bob Marshall an antiques dealer, he quoted me a price of $2,000. Not too long afterwards I suggested to my friend Andy Murdoch located in Dunsford that this was a fair price for a Flyte as I knew Andy to be on the lookout for this type of bike to add to his healthy collection of vintage Canadian CCM bikes. Andy decided to think about it, and in the interim, over the winter while thinking the price of that bike was raised to $2500. Pat Johnston brought over a sixteen inch by twenty inch poster of a Flyte that we hung on the shop door for all to see, and I admit to being influenced by that poster as well the simplicity of punching in the words CCM Flyte into the computer and learning all about the designer of the bike Harvey Peace, the first manufacture of the bike in 1936, the era of bikes that it was competing with, a post Art Deco era, the buyers of those bikes, who to my surprise were common folks, Canada Post even bought a pile of them to use for delivering the mail. One comment I have about the Flyte is that in its way it was ahead of its time, a style so cool that it looks good today in any showroom.
I wrote the poster at the site Vintage Bikes UK and asked specifically where he had seen the bike. Comments on his posting which included the photograph were in the order of “Holy Crap man, that is the bike of bikes in Canada, it’s very rare, very special, hard to get,” and so on. My concern was that another Canadian in Eastern Canada would become aware of the bikes presence before I had a chance to make a move. With Patience I waited for the poster to get back to me and he did, quite quickly as a matter of fact and he told me that the bike was parked across the street from a bike shop on rue St-Jean in old Quebec City and that the owners/the shop Velos Roy were not interested in selling it. A bit deflated from this news my sneaky side took over all my senses and I do admit to vaguely planning to drive to Quebec City and Free this rare gem from where it was parked, deteriorating. Well, I could justify my actions this way, the word deteriorating taking on special meaning, I mean, isn’t it necessary to protect national bike treasures, or so I had convinced myself.
The previous year a customer had purchased some vintage 60S CCM parts at our hole in the wall shop called Lumpy Bikes here in Peterborough, Ontario, John Cisco, nice fellow, gentle, originally from Peterborough, from a upper class family some of whom I know, well I know his sister Sherine who was instrumental in assembling some photographs and music for me into a memorial video that was used when our friend Audrey Caryi passed on a few years back after a horse riding accident, Sherine was so helpful. John lives for some unknown reason in Quebec City where he drives a big rig through the week. John shoots me an email from out of the blue and in it he is raving about this old bike with ‘curled parts’ on it and I should check it out. Now, how on earth could this happen that the day after I first see the Flyte on Facebook posted from England that a customer of ours at Lumpy Bikes lives near the bike in Quebec City and contacts me about its existence? Too much of a coincidence. I called John and asked him to send me a photo of the bike he is referring to though I new deep down that he was talking about the same bike. Later the next day on August 11 the photo from John comes through, it is the same black bike the British man had posted on Facebook. I got back to John via email right quick as he said he had been talking with the owners of the shop who owned the bike and had parked it across the street from their shop Velos Roy for three years along a steel fence that was part of the now closed St. Jean Church. Imagine a Holy Grail left unattended as ART for three years, perhaps, the fact it was chained to a church fence saved it. A staff member of Velos Roy had told John that the bike was given to them by two elderly women who claimed it had last been ridden by a priest. Images of a Trappist Monk wearing a wide brimmed hat and long black robes and heavy chains with a crucifix on the end, passed through my head in dance like fashion to the soundrack from the film Black Robe. The good people of Quebec! It appeared that no one had stamped on the rims that would have been weak from the elements, nor stolen the worn leather saddle, or kicked in the fenders, it was as if the bike had been in suspended reality for those years, I thought how it would have looked with the winters snow piled on it. I thought how it would have made an excellent thesis story for a budding photographer to have documented its history over the years and seasons it was imprisoned to that fence. Thinking was not good I had to act!
I contacted John and asked him to go to the shop and make queries with the staff if they would sell me the bike for $400. A sum I thought was close to what it was worth considering the rough condition the bike was in and as I had not had the opportunity to inspect the bike. Surprisingly, John got back to me with the pertinent information from the shop keepers and the news that they would accept my offer of $400. That was a Thursday August 16, I never told anyone about the find, in particular other bike people as we can be very secretive of our moves, except my wife Julia who is good at keeping a secret. I told her I was driving to Quebec City on Sunday to pick it up, she knew I was serious. There was plenty of time to gather some supplies to take on the trip, fill the Honda Element with gas, plan a route, research the time it would take, figure out sleeping arrangements. Excited does not hardly describe how I felt, ecstatic comes close. The previous year I had completely refurbished a 1930s Eatons Glider, the results were good enough that the bike sold quickly but for less than I had offered for the Flyte. One reason for the low payout on the Glider was the fact it was a ladies frame and often the case is that ladies step through frame vintage bikes do not go for near what a male version does, perhaps this is an area that womens rights groups would like to address! The point is I was confident I could use my skills to make the Flyte more than presentable while at the same time obtaining a bike that was famous.
Quebec City is quite a drive from Peterborough about 737 km or 458 miles if you were born pre metric, time wise the guides suggest about 7.5 hours. The van was packed with all the essentials, a full tank of gas, a pillow two thin self inflating air pads, an old sleeping bag, a cooler with a bag of ice, my overnight toiletry kit, a clean pair of socks, a T shirt and a pair of underwear, six ham and cheese sandwiches, six bottles of water, two cans of pop, two bananas, one can of beer, some celery pieces and radishes in water and a bag of potato chips. There would be no need to stop at any fast food outlets, except to use the washroom facilities. Around 10 AM on Sunday morning August 19 as planned I headed east along Highwy #7 to Havelock, then south to Campbellford and a right at the church up the hill in town towards Stirling then at Frankford I pulled over for some rest and food. Also packed were two pretty good cameras I took a photo near Hoards Station of a dilapidated home on a rural property, very hardscrabble looking. The park in Frankford ran along the water way there, it was quiet for a Sunday but I realize there is a lot of accessible waterfront along the Trent River in that area for people to use for recreation. Recharged by my lunch, I don’t think I stopped again until I got passed the traffic heading back to Montreal from the East part of the province, it was backed up for miles and miles not unlike cottage country traffic that we experience every weekend here in Ontario pouring from the north south east and west into Toronto. I was glad I was heading the other way. Many of the expressway roads in Montreal were all tore up, under construction, surprisingly the GPS lady was on the ball and guided me as needed. I found myself unwittingly cutting through the downtown area and luckily I made it east again after going over a large bridge that spanned some significant water below. My stop at a Rest Stop around five PM was uneventful, I found an empty picnic table, snacked on sandwiches and a can of Irish Harp beer, stretched my legs, looked around the well groomed facility and again in life thought how hospital it is in Quebec compared to areas of Ontario where when you pull over you are herded into fast food land.
Leaving the Montreal area I was inundated with the sight of small manufacturing companies lining both sides of the busy highway, mile after mile of them. There seldom is very much exciting to say about these express route trips, I find myself in a driving trance, spending a significant amount of time and energy concentrating on the road ahead of me with little time to do much else. The car jukebox gets a good workout though I must say. I had purchased a new copy of one of Leonard Cohens earlier compilations that included my sisters song Suzanne, before she passed Sue told me she would not visit us for some time for fear that I would put that song on, oh god schizophrenia, what it can do to you. There was a new copy of the Doors CD as well, Strange Days that had a long song on it that I was interested in hearing again, When the Music’s Over is the title, plus sundry other stuff the likes of Van Morrison’s best Astral Weeks, well in my opinion it is his best, other albums in the rotation don’t come to mind right away, they will given time. As I age the necessity for words in songs is of less importance and lets face it with some tunes we have known since their releases thirty fourty fifty years ago, we know the words, they are imbedded in there and appear like magic when the music plays.
It was dark of course past 10 PM by the time I got within striking distance of Quebec City. A map on the phones GPS showed that the City of Levis was just across the St. Lawrence River from the historical old town so I pulled into a large public rest stop that was not very crowded, I drove up to the closest spot to the amenities building where I could use the facilities have a wash and stretch my legs. As expected the facility was sparkling clean, an attendant was sitting over in one corner keeping his broom and dustpan company, he listened to a ghetto blaster softly playing music which I did not recognize. Freshened up I made my way to the Honda and moved it to a more secluded part of the parking area. The big rigs were over to one area facing the exit to the Trans Canada highway their motors humming, there were areas for RVs that had a few recreational type vehicles set up for an overnight stay as the front curtains had been pulled closed on them. This was by far a cheaper alternative to a paid overnight stay at a campground, and I thought if you just needed a few hours rest to freshen up for some more driving why would you pay. My little truck was backed into a spot that bordered the lawn that was well kept and well used by the number of waste receptacles present. As I tried to get comfortable the caretaker from the building could be seen going from bin to bin pushing a rubber wheeled cart that held a large bin. At each pail he would pull the old bag out and place that in his Master Bin, he would replace the bag with a new one then push the cart over to the next bin and repeat the process. I must have watched him for an hour as I could not sleep. When he was done and it was near midnight by this time I decided to get into the back of the truck but for the life of me, I could not get back there from the back doors! I could get in, but I could not close the doors, I was frustrated, so I got out and moved the passenger seat back as far as it would go, I got in the passenger side backwards and sort of pushed myself passed the gear box and past the drivers seat till I landed on the back floor. The rear was equipped with the sleeping gear positioned at an angle to accommodate my length and a blue hospital urine jug hung in one of the utility vehicles ample storage areas, it was ready to use when required. After some time tossing and turning, getting comfortable I fell asleep for four solid hours.