View allAll Photos Tagged Dissolves
Dissolved Dreams
HDR 7 scatti
Fotocamera: Nikon D700
Aperture: f/11
Shutter Speed: 1.0 s
Lente: 14 mm
ISO: 200
Exposure Bias: 0 EV
Flash: Off, Did not fire
Lens: Nikkor AF-S FX 14-24mm f/2.8G ED
The ground we walk on, the plants and creatures, the clouds above constantly dissolving into new formations - each gift of nature possessing its own radiant energy, bound together by cosmic harmony.” Ruth Bernhard
Ein Raum, der sich auflöst im Bild.
Zwischen den monumentalen Wänden von Katharina Grosse verschwimmen die Grenzen – zwischen Kunst und Architektur, Bewegung und Stillstand.
Die Besucher werden Teil der Installation, während der Gang selbst zum Kunstwerk wird.
Englisch
A space dissolving into the image.
Between the monumental walls of Katharina Grosse, boundaries blur – between art and architecture, motion and stillness.
The visitors become part of the installation, as the passage itself turns into a work of art.
In the darkest of nights, when waves crash with relentless fury and the horizon dissolves into uncertainty, a lighthouse stands tall—a beacon of unwavering guidance and safety for sailors lost at sea. Its steady glow pierces through the storm, offering not only direction but also a sense of hope. In much the same way, we, too, search for lighthouses in our lives during times of turmoil, seeking security to navigate our own unpredictable storms.
Life has a way of tossing us into tempests—grief, doubt, loss, fear. In those moments, when the path forward feels shrouded, we yearn for stability, for something or someone to anchor us. These "lighthouses" come in many forms: the comforting embrace of a loved one, a cherished memory that reignites our courage, or a deeply held belief that steadies our hearts. They serve as points of clarity, reminding us that no storm lasts forever and that, even in the chaos, we are not alone.
Consider the solace of a parent's words, a mentor’s wisdom, or the steady companionship of a close friend. These relationships act as guiding lights, steadying us when we feel adrift. Likewise, memories—of past triumphs, of laughter shared, of love given and received—shine like distant stars, illuminating our path forward. Even the small rituals that bring us comfort—a favorite song, a handwritten letter, the first sip of coffee in the morning—can remind us that peace is within reach, if only we pause to notice.
And just as sailors must trust the lighthouse to guide them to safety, so must we trust in our own beacons, embracing the security and direction they offer. In doing so, we cultivate resilience and find courage to weather life’s storms. The beauty lies in the fact that these lighthouses are not distant or unattainable; they are woven into the fabric of our everyday lives, waiting for us to seek their light when the winds begin to howl.
So, as we face our storms, let us remember the steadfast lighthouses that guide us—people, memories, moments—that help us find our way back to calmer shores. Their light is constant, and their presence is proof that no matter how rough the waters, there is always a way forward.
In 1999 the government in Foster, Kentucky dissolved. The new AA Highway bypassed the tiny community. It's two remaining stores closed. It didn't take long for decay and fires to set in and make this a very undesirable place to raise a family. At one time it was an active port on the Ohio River.
Gros plan sur. Zoom avant et high key. On rentre dans la matière pour s'y effleurer les yeux et s'y dissoudre de plaisir. Avec comme l'amour envie d'y re gouter le plus vite possible ... Une fois son souffle revenu.
...
Close up. Zoom and high key. You enter the material for the eyes and touch it to dissolve fun. With love as desire to be re taste as quickly as possible ... Once his breath income.
The Convent of Christ (Portuguese: Convento de Cristo/Mosteiro de Cristo) is a former Catholic convent in Tomar, Portugal. Originally a 12th-century Templar stronghold, when the order was dissolved in the 14th century the Portuguese branch was turned into the Knights of the Order of Christ, that later supported Portugal's maritime discoveries of the 15th century. The convent and castle complex are a historic and cultural monument and was listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1983.
Wikipedia
Angel of Pain Photo Contest 2024: Loneliness
Loneliness - Echoes in the Mist
I stood there, letting the rain blur the lines between me and the world around me. The quiet of Angel of Pain Island felt like it was breathing with me—each step, each thought dissolving into the mist. For a moment, I wasn’t sure where I ended and the landscape began..
A lone girl stands along the Hong Kong waterfront, wrapped in winter light and a coat that seems a size too hopeful. Behind her, the skyline dissolves into haze—glass and metal stacked like unfinished thoughts—while the harbor glitters with the kind of brightness that makes you squint at your own longing.
There’s a stillness in the way she holds herself, as if she’s waiting for someone or deciding whether to keep walking. Her shadow stretches toward the camera like a question, soft and unhurried, out of place against the fevered pulse of the city behind her.
Sometimes Hong Kong roars.
Sometimes it whispers.
Today, it chose silence.
(...)So open your heart again
And feel the walls dissolve
Something's whispering to you
It's time to let go
Because the only thing that stays the same
Is that everything must change
Everything must change(...)
Matt Johnson The The
The The are an English post-punk band. They have been active in various forms since 1979, with singer-songwriter Matt Johnson being the only constant band member. The The achieved critical acclaim and commercial success in the UK, with 15 chart singles (seven reaching the Top 40), and their most successful album, Infected (1986), spent 30 weeks on the chart. They followed this with the Top Ten albums Mind Bomb (1989) and Dusk (1993).[
You know when you wonder, but what happened to this or that, as if suddenly everything was lost in the fog. In reality then you discover that many composers and musicians have always worked, only that they have experimented with new collaborations, new projects and have not warned you :) Once again I owe it to Spotify, which made me find a cover of a piece that I loved . Hence the research and I discovered in limited edition a triple vinyl, Radio Cineola: Trilogy. One of the three, The End of the Day contains interpretations of a selection of songs by singers from around the world.
And this is the one I chose:
Phantom Walls · The The · Gillian Glover
Gillian Glover is the daughter of Roger Glover and sings this song in Spanish.
Here the original song:
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Thanks for stopping by, everything is always very appreciated
Ah Shiprock! A monument to rule them all. It puts the majestic monuments of the Monument Valley to shame, rises angrily out of New Mexico's plains and screams out: "Pay attention!". You, the traveller, head toward it, mesmerized, but you can never get there. "There" cannot reached. Night falls. The Moon sinks beneath the horizon. Shiprock dissolves in the darkness and you are left alone with the wind, your ever present guide.
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
Pablo Neruda
“For life, too, is an instant,
Only the dissolving of ourselves
In the selves of all others
As if bestowing a gift.”
—Boris Pasternak, “Wedding”
I've just seen a PS-how-to and had to play around with it.
Finally I created a dissolving moon out of my supermoon-photo from last month.
Original photo: www.flickr.com/photos/dandie84/14927713392/
Free private and non-commercial use of images on my website www.flowingandglowing.com.
Conditions apply.
Commercial licenses for high resolution images are available
Life is a Rainbow - One year in colours
Red [22/52 weeks]
Snake wine is an alcoholic beverage produced by infusing whole snakes in rice wine or grain alcohol. The drink was first recorded to have been consumed in China during the Western Zhou dynasty and considered an important curative and believed to reinvigorate a person according to Traditional Chinese medicine. It can be found in China, Goa (India), Vietnam, and throughout Southeast Asia.
The snakes, preferably venomous ones, are not usually preserved for their meat but to have their "essence" and snake venom dissolved in the liquor. The snake venom poses no threat to the drinker. It is denatured by the ethanol—its proteins are unfolded and therefore inactive and would be denatured by stomach acid anyway. [Wikipedia]
Dear friends,I will be offline for next few days as I will be travelling overseas tomorrow. Will catch up once I return to Sri Lanka
Accessibility Description: A towering curtain of rain hangs suspended in the sky, glowing golden where the low sun strikes it. The rain appears to evaporate before reaching the ground, a phenomenon known as virga, while below, red rock mesas catch the last light of the day. Warm tones highlight the cliffs on the left, their rugged forms rising above a dense forest of green pines and junipers. The sky is filled with dramatic clouds, a mixture of gray, peach, and white, with glimpses of deep blue breaking through at the edges. The entire scene conveys both grandeur and transience, a fleeting desert storm dissolving into light above the enduring sandstone of Sedona.
For we, when we feel, evaporate: oh, we
breathe ourselves out and away: from ember to ember,
yielding us fainter fragrance. Then someone may say to us:
‘Yes, you are in my blood, the room, the Spring-time
is filling with you’..... What use is that: they cannot hold us,
we vanish inside and around them. And those who are beautiful,
oh, who holds them back? Appearance, endlessly, stands up,
in their face, and goes by. Like dew from the morning grass,
what is ours rises from us, like the heat
from a dish that is warmed. O smile: where? O upward gaze:
new, warm, vanishing wave of the heart - :
oh, we are that. Does the cosmic space,
we dissolve into, taste of us then? Do the Angels
really only take back what is theirs, what has streamed out of them,
or is there sometimes, as if by an oversight, something
of our being, as well? Are we as mingled with their
features, as there is vagueness in the faces
of pregnant women? They do not see it in the swirling
return to themselves. (How should they see it?)
Lovers, if they knew how, might utter
strange things in night air. Since it seems
everything hides us. Look, trees exist; houses,
we live in, still stand. Only we
pass everything by, like an exchange of air.
And all is at one, in keeping us secret, half out of
shame perhaps, half out of inexpressible hope.
Lovers, each satisfied in the other, I ask
you about us. You grasp yourselves. Have you a sign?
Look, it happens to me, that at times my hands
become aware of each other, or that my worn face
hides itself in them. That gives me a slight
sensation. But who would dare to exist only for that?
You, though, who grow in the other’s delight
until, overwhelmed, they beg:
‘No more’ -: you, who under your hands
grow richer like vintage years of the vine:
who sometimes vanish, because the other
has so gained the ascendancy: I ask you of us. I know
you touch so blissfully because the caress withholds,
because the place you cover so tenderly
does not disappear: because beneath it you feel
pure duration. So that you promise eternity
almost, from the embrace. And yet, when you’ve endured
the first terrible glances, and the yearning at windows,
and the first walk together, just once, through the garden:
Lovers, are you the same? When you raise yourselves
one to another’s mouth, and hang there – sip against sip:
O, how strangely the drinker then escapes from their action.
Weren’t you amazed by the caution of human gesture
on Attic steles? Weren’t love and departure
laid so lightly on shoulders, they seemed to be made
of other matter than ours? Think of the hands
how they rest without weight, though there is power in the torso.
Those self-controlled ones know, through that: so much is ours,
this is us, to touch our own selves so: the gods
may bear down more heavily on us. But that is the gods’ affair.
If only we too could discover a pure, contained
human place, a strip of fruitful land of our own,
between river and stone! For our own heart exceeds us,
even as theirs did. And we can no longer
gaze after it into images, that soothe it, or into
godlike bodies, where it restrains itself more completely.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Endlessly waiting for a moment that might make everything feel whole again, she carries a quiet ache that lingers, growing heavier as the day fades into night. Life’s weight is exhausting, pressing down with unrelenting force. All she craves is a fleeting, beautiful release where memories dissolve and the mind grows quiet. She longs to feel light, empty of pain, free from the weight of the past. Then, perhaps, peace will finally come.
MidJourney AI prompt/ beautiful young woman dissolving into colorful vapor, cinematic lighting, photo-realistic, perfect bright blue eyes, detailed eye, headshot, ultra-detailed
“Whereabouts are you?”
“I’m just passing through Hayle on the way to Godrevy.”
“I’m on my way. Look out for a big red van.”
That thing that I had been expecting to do had just dissolved away into thin air, and suddenly the afternoon ahead of me was free. Lloyd was halfway through his autumn visit to Cornwall, and I’d suspected his target for this very damp Tuesday afternoon was the one I spend so much time at – the one eleven and a half miles down the road. Within ten minutes of the phone call, the van was loaded with camera gear, tea bags, milk and water and I was on the way to Godrevy for our second outing together that week. The rain lashed relentlessly against the windscreen, but let’s be positive about this. Brenda’s sunroofs are watertight and while the windscreen wipers work perfectly well at full bore, the intermittent option has never functioned since she came into our lives. Good old Cornish mizzle is a pain when I’m driving her, but in proper rain the wipers do the job they’re supposed to. And this was proper rain doubled, squared and then doubled again for good measure.
By the time I arrived at the National Trust car park, the heavy rain had turned into a ten thousand metre high waterfall direct from the heavens onto Brenda’s roof. You have two options here outside high summer. Either you can bank what you already have and pull up in the main car park, or you can gamble and try the twelve spaces along the single track road towards the big field – the big field that’s always closed when Cornwall isn't rammed solid with holidaymakers. Those twelve coveted spaces offer a much shorter hike to the lighthouse. I gambled and failed. All of the parking spaces was filled with vehicles of varying sizes, each of them sheltering morose looking occupants from the vicious squall that seemed as if it might be with us forever. And so in ignominious fashion I reversed and crawled forward and reversed and crawled forward however many times it needed for me to point her in the opposite direction, until we could trundle back to the banker’s position. I tried to get out and start walking, but another fierce volley sent me back to Brenda’s warm cab before I’d even reached for the camera bag. From there I phoned one of the morose occupants up in the hallowed twelve spaces, and said I’d sit out the squall before joining him. And so the hard rain continued for some time.
Eventually, as the deluge began to ease, a message came through advising me that a couple of spaces had been vacated. Of course this didn’t mean they’d still be empty by the time I got there, but I hadn’t noticed anyone else drive in that direction for a while, and so I tried again, fully aware of the fact that if I were successful, part of the bargain would be that I’d need to neatly reverse more than six metres of van into a space that it would fill rather more entirely than any of the other vehicles parked there. So nobody was more surprised than myself when I produced a perfect display of parking in front of the no doubt terrified drivers on either side of me. Now I was one of the lucky morose twelve. Lloyd’s car was parked two spaces to the left of me. Quite what any of us felt we could gain from being here in these conditions I’m really not sure.
Although it was still raining, things were now at least manageable, and we decided to brave the elements, heading for the clifftop shelf where we’d last sat together on a sunny April evening earlier in the year. And with as many waterproof garments as we could muster, we slipped and slithered over wet rock as we settled onto stony seats, fifty feet above a frothing sea where grey seals frolicked for fun. For an hour or so, we took long exposures as the worst of the weather remained at sea, sheets of rain advancing over St Ives Bay beneath saturnine clouds that filled the sky with deep blue bruises. Terrible weather so often produces fantastic light if you’re prepared to sit and suffer for a while. It didn’t let us down here either, as for a moment around sunset, soft colours light the horizon.
And then Andy joined us. For a moment we thought it might be a flying visit. Quite literally, as we imagined him sliding along the shelf and straight over the edge, but then again, Andy is Cornish born and bred, and knows these rocks even better than I do. Despite almost bumping into each other more than once recently, it was the first time I’d met Andy, a man who relies entirely on his iPhone and apps that create long exposure images from hundreds or even thousands of individual frames. You’ll have to ask Lloyd if you need to know more. But if you see a man wearing shorts (whatever the time of year), and bearing a red tripod with a phone mounted on it, that’s Andy. He’s all over Vero, but not Flickr I’m afraid. I’ve tried to persuade him.
Not long after the third member of our gang had arrived, darkness also decided to make an appearance – along with another heavy drenching from the skies. As we slipped back to the clifftop, and trotted the half mile back to our vehicles, the soaking was intense, and I cursed my failure to remember my waterproof trousers. But there are two great things about campervans in weather like this. One is a diesel heater that warms the space in minutes, and the other is what you can produce with tea bags, milk and water – with the aid of the onboard kettle and gas stove of course. You can't beat a brew to chase away the Stormy Tuesday Blues.
Haworthia cooperi diamonds are nothing more than their transparent tipped leaves. This characteristic of the plant is much appreciated for its beauty, and it becomes clearer in contact with light.
Its leaves start green from the root and start to dissolve in small threads, and on top of the leaf, a crystalline "jewel" is sustained, which looks like a drop of water protected by a light and thin film. In its natural habitat, it is all covered by the earth, leaving only its diamonds out, as it only needs them for the photosynthesis process.
The morphology of Haworthia cooperi is very interesting, as I mentioned earlier, the process of photosynthesis is done through its diamonds. It has a small stature and a short trunk, its stem is barely visible, as the leaves are all stuck to it like a bouquet. Its leaves are predominantly green, but there can be variations.
Depending on the time of year, the leaves may turn reddish or brown. The growth form of Haworthia does not work for the vertical, but for the horizontal, because its leaves do not get bigger nor its trunk taller, what happens is the birth of new leaves, which make the bouquet become more and more full and expand sideways.
***
Ranked #1 on Explore on November 13, 2022.
the pavement was wet, the air thick with the scent of rain. in the puddle, a figure stood—blurry, dark, almost vanishing. clouds drifted in its chest, light pierced through its shoulder. a reflection, or maybe something else. footsteps faded, but the shadow lingered. parc sa riera, palma de mallorca.
Stavropoleos Monastery (Romanian: Mănăstirea Stavropoleos), also known as Stavropoleos Church (Romanian: Biserica Stavropoleos) during the last century when the monastery was dissolved, is an Eastern Orthodox monastery for nuns in central Bucharest, Romania. Its church is built in Brâncovenesc style. The patrons of the church (the saints to whom the church is dedicated) are St. Archangels Michael and Gabriel. The name Stavropoleos is a Romanian rendition of a Greek word, Stauropolis, meaning "The city of the Cross". One of the monastery's constant interests is Byzantine music, expressed through its choir and the largest collection of Byzantine music books in Romania.
Outfit Coat/Pants : DISSOLVED DESPAIR KeK
maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Surreale/61/228/28
by Cobra Takeda
DON'T DUP-
www.facebook.com/groups/520621569482741
Favorite song:
Miyavi - Futurism
In a world ruled by data, where every decision hinges on numbers, and every truth claims to be quantified, what happens when the equations falter? When patterns once considered infallible dissolve into noise, and chaos creeps into spaces once filled with certainty? The society, built on the promise of precision, now faces an unsettling question: what do you trust when the trusted tools betray you? Do you cling to the fractured framework, or take a leap of faith in a world where facts no longer hold?