View allAll Photos Tagged FORGIVE
Sometimes is good to let go.
Found this on a little walk in Victoria along the path going down to the ocean. Glad someone was inspired to put down a message for me to come along and take a shot :)
Hope everyone has a great weekend!
– Forgive me. I feel it again. The pull to the light.
Still think that Kylo's helmet is not the most successful LEGO part, but to recreate this scene its fit quite good due to its relief.
Took a few photos, each time highlighting different parts of the helmet. Then combined the best in Photoshop.
Forgive me my nonsense as I also forgive the nonsense of those who think they talk sense.
Robert Frost
I hope you forgive me this one today:
A few days ago my images here on flickr have been clicked one million times. Thank you very much for this and even more for all your encouragement and your great comments. I do appreciate it a lot!
I have been featured on a few blogs lately. If you are interested or may want to read an interview about my latest series "Notes from the rust belt" please click here: www.markuslehr.com/news/
Finally I will take part in a group exhibition about urban photography in Berlin (see above). Unfortunately the website is only in German: www.berlin-photography.de/index_de.php but I will be there and I'd love to give you a very warm welcome if you can come.
In a bit of a celebration mood about all this I have chosen the three images above for a limited edition print series. Please click here for the details: www.markuslehr.com/prints/
It has been at least 12 days since my last cat pic. Here's a triptych to make up for it.
(=^ェ^=)
Happy Mono Monday!
Taken from an alterpiece created in the middle ages and now housed in the Pushkin Museum Moscow. Image layered and textured in DXO2
26-February-2023
I'm not a videomaker, on the contrary, forgive the clumsy filming in a difficult situation anyway, but I believe that due to this peculiar wind that blows, at times, from Trieste to Dalmatia, the strongest and (ALWAYS LESS) frequent in the whole Mediterranean, a video gives a better idea of the individual photos, which will follow anyway.
I believe that the charm of the Bora's power over the Mediterranean is far greater than the annoyance-danger it can cause, but everyone has their own ideas.
I think a video is much more engaging than a single photo, although, in an absolute sense, I prefer the second one because it freezes an instant for eternity.
Looking at the topography of this area, the Bakar Bay seems well sheltered from E/NE and N/E winds (theoretically coming from the Lič-Fužine basin), and this is partly the case for the opposite inlet (the one where Bakar City resides), but not for this part of the T-shaped bay, that of the "road village" Bakarac (Uvala Bakarac), where it finds a gap from E/SE, from the valley behind the "ass" of the inlet, channeling itself in the "Bura Viadukt", from Hreljin ("Picchetto", for lovers of slightly obsolete Italian names), a tortuous tour that the Bora knows well since it has always done it, since well before the recent viaduct.
It must be said that a very strong Bora katabatic wind (in any case by no means exceptional) like the one on Sunday 26 February, arrives everywhere even from the opposite direction to that from which one would expect it, being thick enough to climb over every obstacle and roll (not slip as for the "Borino/Burin") down from Gorski Kotar taking various routes.
Speaking only of the Croatian northern coast on the mainland (Adriatic/"Jadranska Magistrala" road), there are areas subject to channeling where it is particularly insistent, such as precisely in Bakarac, Kraljevica and Senj, certainly superior to that of Trieste (Rive) for AVERAGE speed, and really quiet areas, such as Crikvenica, although some gusts arrive, exactly everywhere.
In the immediate hinterland, always on the coastal side, however, it blows with terrifying continuity almost everywhere, with the maximum probably in the valley from Gornje Jelenje towards the Grobnik racetrack, behind Rijeka (where instead the bora is felt relatively little), in the one from Bjelolasica towards Novi Vinodolski (with the last locality partially sheltered), section Brez-Bribir, as well as the Vratnik-Senj, with the last locality particularly "affected".
The snow that, by radar, originally fell about 15km(!!) inland, was dragged by the Bora to the sea (drifting snow), wetting the streets even in the extreme north of Krk Island (Most Krk area, Bridge closed for 10 hours) and making snowcover in the immediate hinterland (just 150m above sea level) both in Kraljevica and in Senj, which only happens where the watershed (Gornje Jelenje or Vratnik) is very close to the coast, maintaining high humidity up to 5-6km before the final descent.
Istria, the islands and even Rijeka were out of range of the drifting snow.
Hurry Up Please Its Time
What is death, I ask.
What is life, you ask.
I give them both my buttocks,
my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.
They are neat as a wallet,
opening and closing on their coins,
the quarters, the nickels,
straight into the crapper.
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and moon the executioner
as well as paste raisins on my breasts?
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and show my little cunny to Tom
and Albert? They wee-wee funny.
I wee-wee like a squaw.
I have ink but no pen, still
I dream that I can piss in God's eye.
I dream I'm a boy with a zipper.
It's so practical, la de dah.
The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,
is being a little girl in the first place.
Not all the books of the world will change that.
I have swallowed an orange, being woman.
You have swallowed a ruler, being man.
Yet waiting to die we are the same thing.
Jehovah pleasures himself with his axe
before we are both overthrown.
Skeezix, you are me.
La de dah.
You grow a beard but our drool is identical.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
Today is November 14th, 1972.
I live in Weston, Mass.
, Middlesex County,
U.
S.
A.
, and it rains steadily
in the pond like white puppy eyes.
The pond is waiting for its skin.
the pond is waiting for its leather.
The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.
It begins:
Interrogator:
What can you say of your last seven days?
Anne:
They were tired.
Interrogator:
One day is enough to perfect a man.
Anne:
I watered and fed the plant.
*
My undertaker waits for me.
he is probably twenty-three now,
learning his trade.
He'll stitch up the gren,
he'll fasten the bones down
lest they fly away.
I am flying today.
I am not tired today.
I am a motor.
I am cramming in the sugar.
I am running up the hallways.
I am squeezing out the milk.
I am dissecting the dictionary.
I am God, la de dah.
Peanut butter is the American food.
We all eat it, being patriotic.
Ms.
Dog is out fighting the dollars,
rolling in a field of bucks.
You've got it made if you take the wafer,
take some wine,
take some bucks,
the green papery song of the office.
What a jello she could make with it,
the fives, the tens, the twenties,
all in a goo to feed the baby.
Andrew Jackson as an hors d'oeuvre,
la de dah.
I wish I were the U.
S.
Mint,
turning it all out,
turtle green
and monk black.
Who's that at the podium
in black and white,
blurting into the mike?
Ms.
Dog.
Is she spilling her guts?
You bet.
Otherwise they cough.
.
.
The day is slipping away, why am I
out here, what do they want?
I am sorrowful in November.
.
.
(no they don't want that,
they want bee stings).
Toot, toot, tootsy don't cry.
Toot, toot, tootsy good-bye.
If you don't get a letter then
you'll know I'm in jail.
.
.
Remember that, Skeezix,
our first song?
Who's thinking those things?
Ms.
Dog! She's out fighting the dollars.
Milk is the American drink.
Oh queens of sorrows,
oh water lady,
place me in your cup
and pull over the clouds
so no one can see.
She don't want no dollars.
She done want a mama.
The white of the white.
Anne says:
This is the rainy season.
I am sorrowful in November.
The kettle is whistling.
I must butter the toast.
And give it jam too.
My kitchen is a heart.
I must feed it oxygen once in a while
and mother the mother.
*
Say the woman is forty-four.
Say she is five seven-and-a-half.
Say her hair is stick color.
Say her eyes are chameleon.
Would you put her in a sack and bury her,
suck her down into the dumb dirt?
Some would.
If not, time will.
Ms.
Dog, how much time you got left?
Ms.
Dog, when you gonna feel that cold nose?
You better get straight with the Maker
cuz it's coming, it's a coming!
The cup of coffee is growing and growing
and they're gonna stick your little doll's head
into it and your lungs a gonna get paid
and your clothes a gonna melt.
Hear that, Ms.
Dog!
You of the songs,
you of the classroom,
you of the pocketa-pocketa,
you hungry mother,
you spleen baby!
Them angels gonna be cut down like wheat.
Them songs gonna be sliced with a razor.
Them kitchens gonna get a boulder in the belly.
Them phones gonna be torn out at the root.
There's power in the Lord, baby,
and he's gonna turn off the moon.
He's gonna nail you up in a closet
and there'll be no more Atlantic,
no more dreams, no more seeds.
One noon as you walk out to the mailbox
He'll snatch you up --
a wopman beside the road like a red mitten.
There's a sack over my head.
I can't see.
I'm blind.
The sea collapses.
The sun is a bone.
Hi-ho the derry-o,
we all fall down.
If I were a fisherman I could comprehend.
They fish right through the door
and pull eyes from the fire.
They rock upon the daybreak
and amputate the waters.
They are beating the sea,
they are hurting it,
delving down into the inscrutable salt.
*
When mother left the room
and left me in the big black
and sent away my kitty
to be fried in the camps
and took away my blanket
to wash the me out of it
I lay in the soiled cold and prayed.
It was a little jail in which
I was never slapped with kisses.
I was the engine that couldn't.
Cold wigs blew on the trees outside
and car lights flew like roosters
on the ceiling.
Cradle, you are a grave place.
Interrogator:
What color is the devil?
Anne:
Black and blue.
Interrogator:
What goes up the chimney?
Anne:
Fat Lazarus in his red suit.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
Ms.
Dog prefers to sunbathe nude.
Let the indifferent sky look on.
So what!
Let Mrs.
Sewal pull the curtain back,
from her second story.
So what!
Let United Parcel Service see my parcel.
La de dah.
Sun, you hammer of yellow,
you hat on fire,
you honeysuckle mama,
pour your blonde on me!
Let me laugh for an entire hour
at your supreme being, your Cadillac stuff,
because I've come a long way
from Brussels sprouts.
I've come a long way to peel off my clothes
and lay me down in the grass.
Once only my palms showed.
Once I hung around in my woolly tank suit,
drying my hair in those little meatball curls.
Now I am clothed in gold air with
one dozen halos glistening on my skin.
I am a fortunate lady.
I've gotten out of my pouch
and my teeth are glad
and my heart, that witness,
beats well at the thought.
Oh body, be glad.
You are good goods.
*
Middle-class lady,
you make me smile.
You dig a hole
and come out with a sunburn.
If someone hands you a glass of water
you start constructing a sailboat.
If someone hands you a candy wrapper,
you take it to the book binder.
Pocketa-pocketa.
Once upon a time Ms.
Dog was sixty-six.
She had white hair and wrinkles deep as splinters.
her portrait was nailed up like Christ
and she said of it:
That's when I was forty-two,
down in Rockport with a hat on for the sun,
and Barbara drew a line drawing.
We were, at that moment, drinking vodka
and ginger beer and there was a chill in the air,
although it was July, and she gave me her sweater
to bundle up in.
The next summer Skeezix tied
strings in that hat when we were fishing in Maine.
(It had gone into the lake twice.
)
Of such moments is happiness made.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
Once upon a time we were all born,
popped out like jelly rolls
forgetting our fishdom,
the pleasuring seas,
the country of comfort,
spanked into the oxygens of death,
Good morning life, we say when we wake,
hail mary coffee toast
and we Americans take juice,
a liquid sun going down.
Good morning life.
To wake up is to be born.
To brush your teeth is to be alive.
To make a bowel movement is also desireable.
La de dah,
it's all routine.
Often there are wars
yet the shops keep open
and sausages are still fried.
People rub someone.
People copulate
entering each other's blood,
tying each other's tendons in knots,
transplanting their lives into the bed.
It doesn't matter if there are wars,
the business of life continues
unless you're the one that gets it.
Mama, they say, as their intestines
leak out.
Even without wars
life is dangerous.
Boats spring leaks.
Cigarettes explode.
The snow could be radioactive.
Cancer could ooze out of the radio.
Who knows?
Ms.
Dog stands on the shore
and the sea keeps rocking in
and she wants to talk to God.
Interrogator:
Why talk to God?
Anne:
It's better than playing bridge.
*
Learning to talk is a complex business.
My daughter's first word was utta,
meaning button.
Before there are words
do you dream?
In utero
do you dream?
Who taught you to suck?
And how come?
You don't need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?
The cry of a gull is beautiful
and the cry of a crow is ugly
but what I want to know
is whether they mean the same thing.
Somewhere a man sits with indigestion
and he doesn't care.
A woman is buying bracelets
and earrings and she doesn't care.
La de dah.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
There are stars and faces.
There is ketchup and guitars.
There is the hand of a small child
when you're crossing the street.
There is the old man's last words:
More light! More light!
Ms.
Dog wouldn't give them her buttocks.
She wouldn't moon at them.
Just at the killers of the dream.
The bus boys of the soul.
Or at death
who wants to make her a mummy.
And you too!
Wants to stuf her in a cold shoe
and then amputate the foot.
And you too!
La de dah.
What's the point of fighting the dollars
when all you need is a warm bed?
When the dog barks you let him in.
All we need is someone to let us in.
And one other thing:
to consider the lilies in the field.
Of course earth is a stranger, we pull at its
arms and still it won't speak.
The sea is worse.
It comes in, falling to its knees
but we can't translate the language.
It is only known that they are here to worship,
to worship the terror of the rain,
the mud and all its people,
the body itself,
working like a city,
the night and its slow blood
the autumn sky, mary blue.
but more than that,
to worship the question itself,
though the buildings burn
and the big people topple over in a faint.
Bring a flashlight, Ms.
Dog,
and look in every corner of the brain
and ask and ask and ask
until the kingdom,
however queer,
will come.
by Anne Sexton
♫ SONG/Missy Higgins Forgive me ❥
www.youtube.com/watch?v=82ctJPv_kGU
✈ LOCATION/Bay City ❥
maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Bay%20City%20-%20Maddequet...
"Oh my God how you make it hard
Not to pick the apple
Pick the apple
And Lord I long to give it back."
Just lyrics, Hugs everyone ♥
Forgive Me!
❤ BLOG: Credits & Slurls & More ❥
That I never said to you
Forgive me for not knowing
The right words to say, to prove
That I will always be
Devoted to you and me
And if you can't feel that in my love
Then I'm sorry for not giving you enough
Angel ~ undisclosed location, CA
Strobist ~ One Light ~ AB1600 w Large Softbox ~ Triggered by Pocketwizards Plus II
Website ~ www.jorgemorenojr.com