In making this miniature dollhouse scale (1:12) pine hutch, I applied five coats of paint, sanded, brushed, and damp washed each layer before applying the next one. The resultant color is deep green with bits of glitter to signify magical ability.

I make my hutches one at a time… from start to finish. There is no assembly line in my workshop. No elves either. For this reason, this is truly one-of a-kind. I keep no written “recipes” for the color or instructions for the items I create to put into/on my hutches. Pieces on this hutch are from nature or created at the time I was working on it from materials at hand at that time.

i found her when i was riding my bike today, August 11th, in the middle of nowhere, laying beside the road in the glaring sun. Since i was about 15 miles from home, my only option was to call Animal Control (the dog pound) to come pick her up. Meanwhile i flagged down all 3 vehicles that came by to try to get food for her. She is VERY thin and there were no puppies in sight despite the condition of her teats. I waited there with her until the "dog catcher" arrived. Who knows how long she had been there. She appeared dehydrated and weak.

I checked on her later at the pound was told since she is a pitbull the puppies were probably sold and the mother dumped to die. Look at the despicable environment she has at the "shelter". She had NO FOOD, NO WATER and NO BEDDING of any sort. A jagged piece of rusty metal is visible right above her head. I don't know what fate is worse for her. I went back again this evening and told the officer i would take her to the emergency vet tomorrow (Sunday) if she appears to be going down. He promised to call me with an update on her. But what will become of her? Why are people so mean to pitbulls?

Please CHIP IN if you can

lunathepitbull.chipin.com/rehab-luna-the-abandoned-pit-bull

an abstract painting from 2013.

i painted this on the side of a filing cabinet when i was sixteen, then took a film picture of it when i was eighteen, i believe. in the process of painting it, i got the first smears of acrylic on my bedroom floor...and soon, with continued projects, the mess would just get worse, to the point where the floor will need to be deeply sanded and refinished if we ever move.

then, at nineteen, heartbroken, after drinking most of a bottle of gin, i would wildly paint the walls as well. unfortunately i ended up drawing on them with sharpie, too, which is apparently very hard to paint over, as it bleeds through everything...i now feel very bad about all of that property damage, but it has instilled in me a deeper love for kooky home design -- when i have a home studio someday, i'm definitely going to town on every available surface in the room.

Why you break my heart?

Every time we depart?

I thought you loved me

I thought you were my dove

When you go bye, bye, bye

I simply go why, why, why?

My heart crumples into dust

Out of all the one’s I lust you the most

My heart is torn

It can’t be re-born

This can’t be real

This wasn’t the deal

You were my bumble bee

Now I can’t even humble you

I remember when we first met

Now your saying to let go.

So what now?

This is how it end?

Why did you leave me?

Is there even a reason ?

Had a friend from class meet with me after work to work on a different class project. After that we just went around taking photos. My idea was to have a well dressed woman, sort of like a Disney Princess, look lost of love, heartbroken, etc. Hopefully I conveyed this well. Also tried to make it look like she was a puppet with her strings cut. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Loafing E9

I am heartbroken.

UPDATE:

It is with heavy hearts that we share this update. The lack of improvement in Valor’s neurologic symptoms after a week of aggressive supportive care led us to the decision to humanely end Valor’s suffering before his condition deteriorated further. We learned yesterday afternoon that Valor had tested positive for West Nile virus; we had suspected that this was the cause of his symptoms. Infection with this virus is not always fatal in birds; however, after seven days of intensive supportive care, Valor remained slow to respond to stimuli and displayed no signs of improvement. He had to be force-fed as he showed no appetite and refused to hand-feed or self-feed. Valor was extremely lethargic and had head and body tremors—signs of advancing West Nile disease. Our professional assessment was that it was extremely unlikely that he would recover, even for placement at an educational facility. Subjecting him to further treatment, handling, and captivity and prolonging his suffering would have been inhumane and contrary to our principles as wildlife rehabilitators. A necropsy will be performed at another facility.

In the past five years, we’ve treated 300 Bald Eagles along with over 10,000 other wild birds that have relied on us for care. As professionals, we do our very best for each and every single patient, as we always have and will continue to do, and this includes Valor. We share the deep sorrow you feel for his loss and hope you know that your passion for native wildlife matters. It is so inspiring to see the community rally behind a wild animal in need; thank you to everyone who showed support for Valor and Tri-State. While this outcome was not what we wanted, there are thousands of success stories of animals receiving a second chance at life in the wild at our center and wildlife rehabilitation centers around the world—this is what motivates our staff and volunteers to continue caring for wildlife in need every day. To understand more about West Nile Virus please go to: www.raptor.umn.edu/our-research/west-nile

The Montreal Museum of Fine Arts is the permanent home of Dale Chihuly’s iconic artwork “The Sun” thanks to generous donations of Montrealers.

The Sun stands 5.5 metres tall, is made up 1,573 individual hand blown glass pieces and weighs 2,000 Kilos.

The sun was first unveiled at the New York Botanical Garden in 2006. Then it spent some time at the Salk Institute for Biological Studies in 2010. And it eventually made its way to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts in 2013 where it remained until 2014 when it was displayed in London’s Berkeley Square.

When the sun left, Montrealers were heartbroken, so the Museum of Fine Arts started the fund raising campaign to bring the sun back permanently.

A 2014 personal donation of $500,000 by the Montreal investment manager Sebastian Van Berkom enabled the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts to permanently acquire the dramatic blown-glass sculpture that patrons and passersby had warmed to since it first arrived here for a 2013 exhibition.

The sun returned 05 May 2016 and the Museum of Fine Arts organised a special "Welcome Back" event in its honour.

CHIHULY:

Born in Tacoma, Washington in 1941, Chihuly is regarded as the "Tiffany" of our day and has been exploring the plastic potential of blown glass for over fifty years. With fire, gravity, breath and centrifugal force, this accomplished master plays with colours, reflections and organic forms, using repetition, accumulation and layering arrangements of modular and singular elements to create unparalleled rhythms and visual effects.

The Chihuly Controversy:

From the NY Times - 21 Aug 2017.

Mr. Chihuly was never the lonely artist toiling in his garret. Making art in a crowd, with a crowd, was the Chihuly way, according to people who have known and worked with him over the decades. The pattern only deepened with time and success, as he gained global recognition for the prolific output of expressive glass works, sculptures and paintings that bear his name and can sell into the millions of dollars.

“The more I worked, the more I sold work, the more people I could hire,” Mr. Chihuly said in an interview in his 34,000-square-foot studio complex here in Seattle, near where he was born and raised.

But now, at 75, with mental health issues and old physical injuries that have forced a retreat from hands-on work, Mr. Chihuly is facing a hard-edge court battle — and a potential cloud over his life and art — around the question of what those teams do. A former contractor has sued him and his wife, Leslie, who is the president and chief executive of Chihuly Studio, seeking compensation for millions of dollars of paintings that the contractor says he created or inspired, but for which he said he was never properly credited or compensated.

These are painful days for Dale Chihuly, as he winds down a long career facing a challenge that stabs at the heart of any artist: his originality. Mr. Chihuly emblazoned his signature on the world by working and rethinking the vocabulary of glass as art. Physical challenges and scars compounded the difficulty of that path. He lost vision in an eye in a 1976 car crash that also permanently injured an ankle and a foot. A shoulder injury from a bodysurfing accident made glass blowing, with its heavy weights of pipes and glass, impossible to do. He suffers from bipolar disorder, marked by sweeping swings of elation and depression. And with greater dependence on others, he said, has come greater vulnerability to claims that his work is not his own.

“Yeah, I would say it probably made it easier to attack me,” he said. “I absolutely need my teams.”

The Chihulys, in their own countersuit in Federal District Court in Seattle, have dismissed the claim by the former vendor, Michael Moi, as an act of greed and jealousy. They said that Mr. Chihuly’s vision still defines and shapes all art that leaves his studio.

“He was a handyman,” Ms. Chihuly said of Mr. Moi’s role in the company, which employs about 100 people in several locations in the Seattle area.

Mr. Moi’s lawsuit says that exploitation and uncredited work were built into the Chihuly team system, and that the mental swings of working under a bipolar artist — manic bouts of energy followed by crashes of depression and paranoia — were part of the unpredictable dynamic of how and when work got done, and who did it. Mr. Moi, through his lawyer, declined a request for an interview.

“Up-and-down manic cycles were a constant,” the suit says.

Certainly, workshops for art, overseen by an artist with a famous name, are nothing new. Painters from Peter Paul Rubens to Rembrandt created elaborate systems of production, as have modern artists like Jeff Koons and Andy Warhol, who famously declared his art to be a factory-produced commodity.

And legal experts said that claims of inadequate credit by an underling generally have faced a tough road because courts require proof that the person who filed for a work’s copyright, Mr. Chihuly in this case, intended to share credit of authorship.

“I think no one would have even assumed that Chihuly did all his own work, first of all, because there’s too much of it,” said Christine Steiner, a lawyer in Los Angeles who represents galleries, artists and museums, but does no work for Chihuly.

In both law and art value assessment, she said, works that go out the door of an artist’s studio, however they are produced, are generally deemed to be a product of that artist’s vision. Because of that, she said she sees little effect on Chihuly art-market values no matter what happens in the case.

But the Chihuly case also opens up what many artists say is an uncomfortable and complicated debate about age, infirmity and the foibles of human nature where one person is in control, egos are large, and vast fortunes are being made.

“Any artist is going to suck up all the energy in the room,” said Toots Zynsky, a glass artist who studied with Mr. Chihuly in the 1970s and remains friends with him. “So the more you admire someone, the less you should work for them.”

Ms. Zynsky trained at the Rhode Island School of Design in the early ’70s, as did Mr. Beers, the architect, when Mr. Chihuly was teaching in the school’s famous glass program. She said she decided early in her career that assistants should never become long-term employees — three years and out became her rule — because she feared she might stunt their style and growth or take too much from them in creating her own art.

Another artist who has known Mr. Chihuly for many years said he believes Mr. Chihuly is still making “Chihuly art,” even if others are constructing and finishing it.

“As long as Dale can put it down on paper, right to the very end I think he’ll be able to keep going,” said Benjamin Moore, a glass artist in Seattle. But Mr. Moore said he has also been saddened by the attacks on his friend, and the decline in Mr. Chihuly’s vitality over the last decade.

“He was such a whirlwind of energy and excitement and enthusiasm, he was like a magnet, drawing the most talented young people around him just to be in his presence to learn,” Mr. Moore said. “But he’s a shell of the man that he was — it breaks my heart.”

In the lawsuit, where pretrial motions are underway, Mr. Moi said the level of Mr. Chihuly’s disabilities were never disclosed to art buyers or the public and that Chihuly Studio often intimated that Mr. Chihuly’s paintings were entirely by his own hand. Other legal cases in recent years involving Mr. Chihuly and his former employees — him suing them or vice versa — were settled out of court, but those disputes could be dredged up again in depositions or testimony as the case goes forward.

“For years Leslie Chihuly and Chihuly Studio have undertaken efforts to hide Dale’s struggles with mental health and his inability to work on a daily basis, not to protect him, but to ensure that the cash cow known as ‘Chihuly’ continued to moo,” Mr. Moi’s suit says.

Mr. Chihuly, who said he now rarely paints for more than an hour or two at a time, perhaps three days a week, was working on a recent morning, surrounded by four assistants. One handed him a brush, then held the paint container at his elbow as he stood over a horizontal glass sheet, partly painted already with specially formulated enamel, composed of ground glass suspended in liquid.

“Do you want one over the other, or do you want it side by side?” Mr. Chihuly turned to ask an assistant, Jodie Nelson, referring to the blotched paint dobs that he was about to apply.

Ms. Nelson’s response was immediate: “I want what you want.”

Mr. Chihuly then proceeded to paint, in sweeping, fast brush strokes as a Bob Dylan song played in the background. The goal, he said, was to approximate, but not fully duplicate, two other glass painted images that would then be put together, fired and then lit for display, creating an illusion of three dimensions, called “Glass on Glass.” The design is still new — only displayed for the first time recently at Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas. During a pause, he gestured to one of the glass layer paintings hanging on back wall. “I rejected that one this morning,” he said. “I don’t like the way it looks.”

There’s no question Mr. Chihuly has become an institution and created a bridge between decorative and fine arts that some art scholars have compared to Louis Comfort Tiffany. Chihuly Studio creates some 30 site-specific pieces a year, ranging in price from $200,000 to millions of dollars, and has done commissions for collectors like Bill Gates and Bill Clinton. Mr. Chihuly’s show at the New York Botanical Garden, through Oct. 29, has drawn more than 484,000 visitors since April, making it one of most attended exhibitions in the garden’s history.

At Chihuly Studio on a recent afternoon, workers were assembling a huge glass chandelier for a university, tinkering with a sculpture scheduled for installation in Union Square Park in New York, and painting flower images on glass in three big warehouselike buildings in Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood.

Seattle became an art-glass capital largely because of Mr. Chihuly, through the Pilchuck Glass School, a nonprofit academy north of the city that he helped found in 1971, and the two museums built around his work or glass art in general. Chihuly Garden and Glass, which opened in Seattle in 2012 next to the Space Needle, is the city’s top-ranked tourist attraction on TripAdvisor, and has become a cash cow of its own. Admission costs $29, and the gift shops sells everything from Chihuly umbrellas ($36), to blankets ($500), to numbered prints of Chihuly paintings (about $3,000).

“Second on my list of things to see, after the Space Needle,” said Alison Yeardley, a fourth-grade teacher from Boston, who was spending three days of her vacation in Seattle and had just left the Chihuly Garden and Museum on a recent morning.

Mr. Chihuly said that in looking back over the long arc of his career, he can pretty much pinpoint where his mental state was, in the cycles of up or down. In the mid ’90s, for example, he remembers working for weeks with little sleep on a project to build and hang chandeliers over the canals of Venice. But then a couple of months later, working at Waterford Crystal in Ireland, he said, the cycle turned. “I was depressed, but yet I had my team with me and I could continue to work,” he said.

“I like my work when I’m up,” he added. “Van Gogh, you know, he worked when he was depressed as well as when he was up, and I’ve never been able to figure it out.”

Mr. Beers, the former student, said he looks back on those early mornings in the glass shop in Rhode Island partly as a response to the practical realities of working in front of a furnace, seizing time before the heat of the day, but also for the quiet sense of calm that seemed part of the experience for Mr. Chihuly and his students.

“It was a more peaceful sort of Zen time, that early in the morning,” Mr. Beers said. “Or maybe he just couldn’t sleep, and it was time to get to work.”

Location: Genting Highland, Selangor, Malaysia.

When I'm a bee,

I fly erratically,

looking for flowers.

to help make honey

Where are you, Queen?

I respond just to You

I bring my nectar only for you

I feel your presence near

Buzzit! I feel strange,

downright deranged.

What's that in black?

Is our hive under attack?!

Humans are very fine

targets for my behind.

Buzz, buzz, I make a pass;

Now he gets a piece of ass

Uh-oh, what's that smokin'?

Bzzt, I'm feelin' heartbroken.

Bee hearts are so tiny

And easily broken

I'm flying

erratically

so high now

I'm out of breath

I'm closer to death

I'm going down now, drifting

I'm going to sleep now, dreaming

of my Queen in our Hive of Honey

When I'm a bee...............................author, Beat Spiccoli.

===============================================

© All Rights Reserved

Please seek my consent to publish it anywhere.

Contact me: Desh amar mati amaR

:::::::::::::: [RAZU] ::::::::::::::

jakirrazu@hotmail.com

ahmedjakir68@yahoo.com

===============================================

I appreciate your comments and Favs.

Thanks in advance for visiting my Photostream.

**********PLEASE NO GRAPHICS**********

This week my Parents would have been married 69 years.

Mom was a young and beautiful 16 year old in Mobile Alabama and Dad was a young strapping sailor stationed at NAS Pensacola Florida which was about 45 miles away.

Dad's roommate Tully had a date with Mom's oldest sister Inez but my Grandfather wouldn't let any of his 9 girls date alone (Grandpa was also the Sherriff of Mobile County... so ya did what he wanted) so Tully asked Dad to come along and double date with "the kid sister". When the two young sailors arrived on G Street in Pritchard (Mobile) Alabama my Mother was sitting on the front porch swing cutting out paper dolls and when the young men walked up she hid the scissors and dolls the only place she had... underneath her. Even though the scissors were poking her in the bottom she wouldn't let them know she was playing with paper dolls.

Well, one thing led to another and about a year or so later Dot and Dick were married and honeymooned in the thriving metropolis of Milton Florida and stayed at the Exchange Hotel (which is still there). They moved into Petty Officer's housing on NAS Pensacola as Dad was now an AOM 1st Class. Life was good for a short while and then came December 7th 1941.

The base went on lockdown after the attack on Pearl Harbor happened, all of the "regular Navy" blokes (i.e. Regular Navy were the guys already IN the Navy when the war started) were shipped out to the fleet and Dad was assigned to the air group on the 1st USS Lexington. He arrived on board ship in time for the Battle of the Coral Sea which was the first naval battle where the two opposing sides never sighted one another. All the fighting was done by aircraft for the first time ever.

The Lexington was sunk, Dad swam away and was rescued. He returned to the states for his 30 days survivor leave in California. He wasn't there long when he was promoted to Chief Aviation Ordnanceman and shipped right back to the Pacific, this time in an air group aboard the new light carrier USS Bataan. Here he would spend the rest of the war, only learning by mail (several months later) of the birth of his first child of four.

Connie was born on November 22nd 1942. Connie would not see her Daddy until she was nearly 6 years old. After the end of the war, Dad returned home and life picked up somewhat where they left off. Dad left the Navy and got a job with my Grandfather on the Sheriff's department in Mobile County Alabama although the Navy would come calling twice more in Dad's life and recall him to active duty for Korea and Vietnam until he eventually retired from naval service as a Chief Warrant Officer.

In August of 1948, along comes my middle Sister; Phylis Irene. From the very beginning she was Daddy's girl! In fact, during her entire life; Phylis only received ONE spanking from Dad and he felt so bad at having spanked her that he took her right out and bought her a new dress! Much to the chagrin of the older Connie (to this day in fact, LOL).

Well, the family moved back to Dad's boyhood home of St. Petersburg Florida and took a job with the Equitable Insurance Company and before you knew it along came a SON, finally a SON. Little Boy Gregg did not survive long enough to even be given a name and his parents and sisters were heartbroken but their unbending love for each other kept them together through it all.

Mom and Dad gave up on having the Son that they always wanted and life got back to normal. And then low and behold in August of 1958...boom! Along comes that boy they had waited for; and God help them all now, LOL. I was born on 28 August 1958 at St. Anthony's Hospital in downtown St. Petersburg Florida. Dad had been moonlighting at night selling coffee to cafes and bars for the Cooper Coffee Company to "pay for me". We are / were a very close family, rarely argued, discussed everything important before making a decision and my Parents quickly became my best friends. A friendship that lasts through to today.

January of 1998 Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease and over the next ten years I watched as the only hero I ever had shrank in both memory and stature into someone who barely knew me or the rest of his family. And for ten years I watched my Mother care for the love of her life with a tenderness that continues to amaze me. She promised him "no homes or "facilities". Your place is at home with me and with me is where you shall stay until you are through here and go home one last time.

She kept her promise and in January of 2008 my Dad, the best friend I've ever known, the only hero I've ever needed and the rock of my very existence went home to his maker and now he hurts and suffers no more.

My Mother has lost the love of her life, her reason for getting up in the morning and her partner of so many years. Family has gathered around her and we nurture her as she did for each of us so many years ago; but she is a smaller and more frail person because of her struggle of the last ten years. Her mind is sharp and her smile as warm as the day I first saw it when she welcomed me into this world. So many memories flood my mind as I write this, trips, parties, good times and bad but always, always together and joined in love. My parents taught me what it meant to love, to value, to honor and to repay over and over debts that were given for no other reason than "because we love you". They taught me the difference between right and wrong, true and untrue, that a man is only as good as his word and that a man will give his very life and breath for that that he believes in and loves the most and that if a man compromises these things that he is a weaker being because of it. I frequently fall short of the pillars that my Dad set forth, and as I was taught; I am a lesser man because of it. I alone can decide if I can live with this or not. Sometimes what doesn't appear right at first is exactly what is right for you in the long run. I am a patriot today because of my Father's example and teachings and will remain so until my own last breath one day.

So many memories, so many happy memories. Loving faces, warm touches, funny stories, adventurous times and the one word that keeps coming back to me is "together". That is how we did things... Together. I love my Mother and Father more than I can express. I am grateful to them in so many indescribable ways for not only my very existence but for who I am today. Not always proud of the choices I make but always in the knowledge that no matter what, I will be loved. I miss my Father terribly. Not a day goes by that I don't think of him and our time together.

On the last day that I saw my Father alive, he was brought out to me in a wheelchair and was slumped forward and nearly limp. My Brother in Law who was caring for him bent over and spoke into Dad's ear and said "Dick, you remember that little boy you had? Well he's here, it's Victor; Dick. He's right there." My Father raised his head out of the slump that had become so familiar and the blank and distant eyes looked at me and it was if a weak little light was turned on and his eyes once again lit up and a small and weak smile came over his face when his eyes locked onto mine. And in less time than it took to read this, it was gone. The blank stare and lost eyes returned and then that evening Dad slipped into a coma and the next morning he was gone. But MY FATHER SAW ME AND KNEW ME. HE SAW ME AND HE KNEW HIS SON WAS THERE, and he smiled at me.

The next morning Dad's breathing became weaker and weaker and about ten AM my Mother and my Sisters and I gathered round Dad, we laid our hands on him and one by one we said thank you to him for all he had done for us; that he had fought such a brave fight; that we loved him; and that I would take care of Mom and the girls like he had taught me to do for so many years, and that he could rest, relax and when he saw the hand of the Lord he should reach out and take it and go home, we would be alright. Less than an hour later, Dad was gone.

Mom was caught somewhere between relief and grief where she remains to this day. She is a stong woman and is working her way steadily through the stages of grief with the help of all of us.

The days don't seem quite as bright as they used to for me. I feel a hole in my heart that nothing seems to fill; no matter how hard I try. I miss my Dad, I always called him "Daddy", so much it hurts. It's like a part of me has gone away and has become lost. But don't be mistaken, I do feel his presence. I know that my Dad will be with me always and that I will see him again one day. That day is what I pin my hope upon.

Richard Bentley Gregg, thou good and faithful servant; pass forth now into thy reward laid up for you in heaven.

Dorothy Iona Gibson-Gregg; thou good and faithful servant. Much riches are laid up for you in heaven and here on earth.

Mom and Dad always told us that we were the richest folks in town because after all... We Had Each Other.

October 23rd, 1939 - October 23rd, 2008.

I Love You Mom and Dad.......

Victor

Update as of January 2023: My dear mother, Dorothy Iona Gibson - Gregg went to home to meet her maker after a long battle with dementia. Her end was not calm, quiet or merciful. It was terrible and I could not get there fast enough to be with her at the end. My mother became very angry after my father's death. She became angry at my father and also with others that she loved. She particularly carried a huge load of anger toward me for I was the one that was tasked with forcing my mother to move out of her and my father's house and move in with my oldest sister Connie. Mom passed away on May 6, 2013. I did not arrive until the next day. I had been out of the country on business and simply could not get there in time.

Mom's earthly remains were interred with my father's remains at Barrancas National Cemetery on board Naval Air Station, Pensacola Florida where so much of both sides of our family have been stationed, went to school and / or are interred there as well. My parents are together again, the only place they ever wanted to be. Both my sisters have passed away from dementia or alzheimer's and I find myself feeling so incredibly alone these last few years. I know that I will see them again one day and that gives me some comfort. My family is mostly disjointed now and broken up. The glue that my parents represented that held the clan so closely together is gone..... and the clan has not survived the loss. My own children are estranged from me and my only son, Nathan and I have not spoken in over six years. I miss all my children terribly and sadly of my six grandchildren.... I've only met one. Things just aren't right with the world anymore and I've given up trying to fix things. They are what they are. My own decisions and behavior are much to blame and I carry that with me daily. My parents would not approve of my decisions or behavior but I have come somewhat to terms with that. One day, one day...

Portfolio Website: gareth.format.com

by Gareth Davies

Bristol 2012

OC in black and white

I was met with seven-year-old Mohammed Shoaib in Chittagong, the commercial capital of the country, in April 2016. His heartbroken look still seems to be still.

The day music died a little....

.. but you did not come

girl [link] | textures by Kim Klassen

My heart is broken.....Brutus went peacefully this morning.....may he run and play like a puppy at Rainbow Bridge!

In this pic Brutus is lying in his special place with his paws hanging over the pool!

Rainbow Bridge

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

Author unknown...

September 11, 2007 - EXPLORE

I purchased Christmas pajamas for all three of my dogs last week with the plan to take a group photo of them in the PJs. Sadly, Chico's breathing took a turn for the worse Friday night, and I had to let him go yesterday so he will never get to wear these pajamas. It's never easy to lose a dog, but this one has hit particularly hard. He was a senior, but I thought I had a few more years with him. I'm beyond broken hearted. It doesn't feel real.

I was heartbroken to hear that our friend Horst passed away. His comments were always thoughtful and generous, and I cherish each and every one.

He was a brilliant photographer. His photos are full of color, joy and happiness; they never fail to brighten my day. I love his sense of humor in his Woody Set, and the beautiful colors in his On Blue Set, but my absolute favorite was his SKYplay Set.

Horst, you will be missed, but I will think of you often when I look to the sky.

Hey guys this is my bunny Bloomer, he died yesterday while I was at winterlude and I'm heartbroken. He lived a good long life, he was 7 years and 359 days old, he almost made it to 8. I wish I could type more but I've cried enough today and this isn't helping. I'll love him and miss him forever, he was my baby boy. Every night I would bring him in bed with me and snuggle him. And he followed me everwhere he could. He was the sweetest thing ever, he never bit me in his life or anyone else for that matter, but he loved to give kisses. I kinda thought the was invincible considering he's gotten into bubblegum multiple times and jellybeans also and had two near death experiences besides those. But I guess he wasn't. I'll miss him forever, but I know that in a way he will always be with me. Rest in peace Bloomer, I love you.

more in comments

A month ago, I was heartbroken to learn that the allotment gardens where I have my plot were to be closed indefinitely, due to precautions to limit the spread of COVID-19. But then...people mobilized....and the province deemed the gardens an essential service. We have new regulations that we need to follow in order to keep everyone safe, but we have access to our gardens. The benefits are vast, from mental and physical health, to eventual fresh food. I am beyond thrilled.

T. H. White.

June 3, 2008 - January 31, 2019

My house burned January 31 while I was at work, and sadly, the firefighters couldn't save Enzo. I am heartbroken.

I lost my best friend and wife Diane. She was/is the whole world to me. I miss her every second of every day.

A morning capture that my wife probably wouldn't have been heartbroken with me not capturing, but there you have it. I generally put a lot of emphasis on my images being as sharp as possible, so thought this venture away from my comfort zone might not be bad thing. Also processed in a bit of noise and crushed shadows.

"get your head out of the mud baby...."

As a kid I was scared of escalators, cause my skirt got caught in one when i was 4. I'm now over that. Hope you like my illustration!

I saw this quote on Tumblr and wished I'd thought of it first.

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"The heart is the only broken instrument that works" ~ T.E. Kalem

I bought this heart-shaped gem in a shop at a mall in Berlin 5 years ago (it was in one piece at that time). I was supposed to give it to a certain girl, but I never got around to do it as I had left my balls at home (figurately speaking). Perhaps it was how it was meant to be, as from what I've heard she's happily married and working as a photographer now.

Anyways.. I've never had the "pleasure" of getting my heart broken as the picture implies. Ripped out and slowly torn apart yes, but not broken. However I didn't have any ideas of how to portrait how I feel now so I went with the broken-theme.

a young boy just before broken up with his girl friend.

500px.com/photo/86396003/

A big "FUCK YOU" goes out to my soon-to-be ex-wife.

My ex left me in June of '07 so that she could "find herself".

She dyed her hair bright pink..... Didn't find herself there.

Then she styled it as a big mohawk.... Didn't find herself there either.

Then she got her septum pierced........ Once again, no discovery of who she really is.

She left me, yet I'm the one who has to initiate the whole divorce proceeding. I'm the one who has to fill out the paperwork. I'm the one that has to file the paperwork. I'm the one who's paying for the paperwork to get filed. I guess my official title is "Petitioner". The petitioner is the one who initiates the divorce process. Not necessarily the person who wanted to get the divorce in the first place. As is the case in my situation. I loved this woman with all my heart. But now I am the one who has to do every-fucking-thing under the stupid fucking sun in order to get divorced. All the while, she's out partying and having a good old time. Well, I'm fucking sick of it! I can't take much more of this. I try to set up meetings with her so that she can fill out the information that pertains to her (like medical insurance, 401k, etc.) but she blows me off. Seriously, why is it so difficult for her to step up to the plate and just take care of this shit? She's the one who wanted all this.

News flash bitch:

You're 31 years old! Grow up and take some responsibility for you actions. Don't rely on everyone else to do all the work for you!

I will never get married again.

Day 243 of 365 days (2nd year)

Our tiny Devon Rex Boy Sylvester. He disappeared after just 1 year. We were heartbroken!