View allAll Photos Tagged Dissolving
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
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.
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.
When the sun dissolves the morning mists and makes the discolored autumn leaves glow.
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2010.
LAKERS won! yeay!
i posted the other water photos under this was my favorite :)
gosh,can't believe school is almost here there's only 2 weeks left.
it's starting to rain here,how about you guys how's your weather there?ö
Thank God It's Friday! :)
here's a sweet quote i got from the net! (probably relates to my photo :p)
science has proven that sugar dissolves in water, so please don’t walk in the rain. otherwise I'll lose such a sweet person like you.-Unknown
...or dissolving ...into light...
...press "L" for large...Lightbox :-)
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Glass mugs are great for this sort of thing!! I tried various different photos with teabags and coffee granules. I was hoping to get a nice one of the teapot's spout with a drip, but my efforts on that front weren't very successful. So this is a photo taken from a slightly low perspective, looking up through the side of a glass mug at coffee granules on the surface, slowly dissolving and sinking into the boiling water.
The Balloon
Gregory Scott
In The Balloon, a field of tulips unravels into liquid color, as though spring itself were dissolving into a memory. Blades of green and bursts of pink, red, and gold twist upward in waves—joyous, chaotic, uncontainable. Amid this visual crescendo, a single hot air balloon rises with calm precision, untouched by the ground’s chromatic storm.
This work is a meditation on contrast—between stillness and movement, clarity and distortion, groundedness and escape. The balloon is more than an object; it is a symbol of ascent above disorder, of quiet amidst noise, of a self lifted gently beyond the fray. Gregory Scott’s signature technique of deliberate warping transforms a pastoral landscape into a swirling poem—part dream, part memory, part metaphor.
In its poetic understatement, The Balloon asks: what do we leave behind when we rise? And what beauty, in its most chaotic form, dares us to stay?
—GSP
2 Peter 3:12 “Looking for and hasting unto the coming of the day of God, wherein the heavens being on fire shall be dissolved, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat?”
©Jane Brown2015 All Rights Reserved. This image is not available for use on websites, blogs or other media without explicit written permission.
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I have a busy weekend - tomorrow I am visiting my ex neighbour and we have friends coming over for an evening meal and on Sunday we are invited to friends for lunch.
▽ [-LB-] Cathy maxi dress & flowers headband
[maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Ember%20Island/218/207/3001]
all i need
a hug, you leaning
into me and loving
the time.
this is all
a beautiful sign
like angels ushering
the triumphal entry
of god dying for us
or of butterflies
entering the banquet hall
of anther and filament
announcing feasts
of regeneration.
Or,
of, literally,
wrapping arms around
a dog on a cool
fall evening.
something insidious
and bitter is
stripped away
in this moment
in this embrace.
Keeping to a theme of distorted or dissolving architectures that provide a metaphor for the dissolution of rational constructs that no longer serve. My previous image cited the Major Arcana Tarot Card, The Tower, as a psychological metaphor for the coming down of a mental or psychic construct that is deemed as nothing but a hindrance in current circumstances. Here I reference that again but add to that the growing critique of the notion of modern, capitalist, exploitative progress at the expense of all else. The notion of limitless growth and limitless profit is patently ridiculous. Such growth, as I think we'll see in our lifetimes, will simply have to stop. It cannot be sustained. And again, this is not so much about radical changes to the outward world we know, but a radicalization of the thinking that creates it.
Collection of Gary Taylor, Toronto.
Part of the "Hypothetical Awards" Group's "Annual Urban Art" Challenge, HUGE thanks to Mel Cabeen for the invitation to it.
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Europe, The Netherlands, Zuid Holland, Rotterdam, Kop van Zuid, Rijnhaven, Mist, Wilhelminapier, High-rises (slightly cut)
The Rijnhaven metro station made for an excellent vantage point, with the former Rijnhaven turning into a park and the high rises of the Wilhelminepier partly dissolving in the mist.
This is number 378 of Rotterdam harbour & Industry and 26 of Rijnhaven redevelopment