View allAll Photos Tagged HyperVigilance
I thank each one of you for your companionship throughout this year-long project of getting to know Tidda! :)
It's been a tumultuous year that has tested my strength and my stamina to the limit.
Some of the challenges included hypervigilance, agoraphobia, hysteria riding in the car, hip dysplasia, protracted diarrhea, stranger phobia, sound phobias, running away in panic and being lost for 25 days. I want to emphasize that Tidda does not represent a typical shelter dog. She was an extreme case of a severely traumatized dog and had been scheduled for euthanasia in California.
However, we felt an instant deep bond the moment we met. It sustained us. And your support helped to sustain me. Then there was the miracle of finding Tidda again after losing her, and our journey became a mystical experience.
I'm not any kind of dog expert, I muddled my way through, but the hard part is behind us now and our life together is getting sweeter and sweeter! In the end, the best path is always love. And love is listening with an open heart. While patiently climbing the mountain.
This guy was actively vying with a colleague for the same territory. I usually pass on most warbler species when I encounter that but with this species in contrast to others it seems the hypervigilance makes it much easier to perch the bird on a chosen perch. Perhaps this means there are differences in how various warbler species engage in fighting during territorial disputes. This certainly seems to be the case based on my observations. In the lower peninsula areas that I visit I've never seen another birder or photographer. It is my opinion that those types of areas are much preferred for warbler photography when calls are used.
This Bald Eagle is keeping a sharp eye after a very loud mid-flight altercation with a younger eagle...which I wasn't quick enough to catch.
Burnt Bridge Creek Trail
Vancouver, Washington
Although there were 3 other people up there, I really felt that the Parasol was my very own refuge; a safe and quiet place above the loud and unsettling people below. Perhaps it speaks to my hypervigilance- somewhere to watch over everything without fear of being noticed. It was nice, and I doubt there are many places like it.
Anyway, this was about 6-minutes in to our ill-fated trip and already we'd been told about the imminent closure. It was such a shame- it introduced a sense of panic and rush to what was such a tranquil place.
Michael, ever the brave Northerner likes to break the rules and wanted to stay longer, but I hate altercations, so we left after such a short visit. I doubt I'll return to Seville soon, but if/when I do, the Parasol will definitely be at the top of my list.
© Leanne Boulton, All Rights Reserved
Street photography from Glasgow, Scotland.
A previously unpublished shot from June 2018 with an anonymised subject that is perfect to answer the oft asked question: Why am I not currently doing street photography?
I have CPTSD (Complex Post-Traumatic Disorder) and have suffered with it for 20 years.
I managed to live through the technicolour nightmares, flashbacks, intrusive memories and triggered hypervigilance with a number of coping strategies but the Covid pandemic interuppted those and my symptoms worsened greatly. Over the past 3 years my CPTSD became unmanageable and I became really very ill.
I have recently finished a year of intensive trauma therapy which has been a great help but the road to recovery is a long process. Most days I am still unable to even leave the house and face people, and this explains why I haven't even touched my camera for the past 5 months.
I am making progress and am proud of what I have acheived to overcome these difficulties but the road ahead will be rocky, and may take some time and intense effort. I do fully intend to return to my beloved 'people photography' as soon as I am able to do so.
This is why your continued support while I have been uploading older unpublished shots and re-edits has been invaluable. I am grateful beyond measure for your kind words, favourites and support and it has, at times, kept me going and determined to pick up my camera once again.
I recently read someone else's words on CPTSD that sum up the difficulties quite well. I'll leave this here to give you an idea of what I am up against and am determined to beat. Thank you all so very, very much.
PTSD is a living hell but I am determined to not let those that did this to me, win.
Take care everyone.
---
PTSD isn't just flashbacks and memories.
It's not feeling safe when there is no logical reason for it.
It's intrusive thoughts that change your whole mood in a heartbeat.
It's hypervigilance, seeing threats everywhere.
It's not being able to trust your own instincts because you don't know what is a real threat or what is just in your mind.
It's poor sleep because if you close your eyes you know you will see it all again.
It's not being able to function day to day because you are broken and exhausted.
It's feeling like a failure, feeling like you deserve it and feeling like you will be like this forever.
It's feeling like you can't trust anyone so you would rather be alone.
It's constantly dealing with physical symptoms like headaches, nausea and palpitations.
It's like living in a prison made from your own mind beacuse of what someone else did to you.
It's living with the consequences of someone else's actions and the anger that can bring too.
It's getting triggered into a traumatised state by sometimes seemingly random things.
It's being unable to cope with even the slightest thing that goes wrong.
It's blaming yourself and hating yourself for 'failing' to stand up against those who caused the trauma.
venus as a boy day; a reflex to off-set male gaze when it gets to me & reoccurring hypervigilance from rape trauma syndrome.
Please make a point to maintain contact with the people you know who are trauma survivors and people with histories of mental illness.
The insane cognitive dissonance of these times brings all the hard stuff to the fore, and it can be powerfully overwhelming.
Twice in the past week I have been startled in my sleep by sounds around me or in dreams, and have awakened to find myself kicking and punching the wall.
Trying to keep it all compartmentalized is easier some days than others. The bad days take my breath away and paralyze me with fear and anxiety, and solitary confinement, oops, no, I mean isolation, makes it so, so much harder.
Today was a very bad day. Looking out of the windows of my tree house, for the first time I could see the lantern fly damage to all the trees around me. It caught my eye when I noticed that trees at some distance look like lace with all the light in the negative spaces, where, at this point in summer, they should look like an opaque wall of green. And there's nothing I can do about it. I can't push back the tide and it's one more life altering event in which I'm mostly helpless. And it looks like a pandemic analogy.
Please hold on to us.
To the tune of CSNY's "Teach Your Children Well" - www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQOaUnSmJr8
DOB: 12/21/1922
Died: 01/04/1999
He was 77 years old.
My Dad's Favorite Quotes:
"You know, Suzie (he called me Suzie) you can be replaced". - (He was right. Unfortunately, you couldn't be, Dad.)
"If you had half a brain you'd be dangerous." (Up for debate)
"Do the right thing" - Huh.
"Do as I say, not as I do".
"How do ya like them apples?"
"I just want you to live an honest life". (Refer to "Do as I say, not as I do".
"You're no prize"
"Eat your heart out"
"You're an accident waiting to happen"
"You don't know when to quit, do you?"
"They broke the mold when they made you". Which mold?
"I forgot more than you know"
"you have a one-track mind" - It's "inherited" (wink-wink)
"Do you know what time it is?" (No - I confuse right and left. It only took 60 years to figure that one out)
"Get your ass in gear"
"Motor Mouth" - His polite way of saying shut-up. He never said shut-up. He always said this with a smile.
"Shit for brains" His name for my brothers.
"Go run around the block" (We did - many times I did not go home).
"Asshole buddies" - (When one of his buddies went somewhere with one of his other buddies other than him.)
"He talks like he's got a paper asshole".
"Don't dish it out if you can't take it" - See "Do as I say, not as I do".
"If you're going to live in my house you live by my rules".
"Every cigarette you smoke is another nail in your coffin".
"Your eyes look like two piss holes in the snow" - (First time wearing makeup.)
"You got band-aids for those mosquito bites?" (First time I'd asked Mom for a bra.)
"You have exactly till 6:00PM to eat those tomatoes (two hours away) or you go to bed *again* without any dinner.". (And?)
"Watch the tips goddammit!" - (Bringing the fishing poles in from the boat).
"You smell like burnt toast".
"I don't trust him/her as far as I can throw him/her". I was a child, remember? Maybe throwing your beer cans, cigarettes, cigars and bottles in the garbage would've been a good start rather than throwing around your kids.
"You know, sometimes I think about suicide." (He said this to me on Christmas Day - 10 days prior to placing a high-powered rifle in his mouth while sitting on the toilet and blew his brains out. With the cooperation of many officials in NJ who scoured their records I was finally able to obtain the police reports and autopsy details in May 2022 after requesting them as I never really believed it was a suicide.
Mom said he'd always stated he was going to commit suicide when he was ready, although I was not aware or told of that one while he was alive. IOW, he always had a plan. "He did it his way" - on his mother-in-law's birthday. He probably didn't even know it was.
He suicided 20 years ago (or so) today - January 4, 1999. Nobody knew my phone number to let me know - my Son was finally able to reach me. Somehow I lost a year at that point. I only know *somebody* put that bullet hole in the bathroom ceiling and his neighbor cleaned up the bathroom. That neighbor developed early dementia as many people do after witnessing such a horrific sight they do not recover from without counseling or talking about it and coming to terms with it. Family trauma and abuse is much the same. That is how people are then labeled with psychiatric terms, unfortunately they were not in fact the "crazy" ones. The true "crazy" ones stay under the radar and appear fully functioning. IOW, "they have jobs" according to today's society. I'd been told my Dad was a "functioning alcoholic".
He tried quitting smoking many times. Once he tried replacing cigarettes with Regal Crown sour cherry & sour lemon drops. No sugar-free options back then. That's when he lost his teeth. After he quit he gained tons of weight.
He sat at the dinner table waving his fork up and down frequently....fair warning to get ready to duck. The five of us always had dinner together every night - that's good for the family structure, it's said. A few times he turned the dinner table over or threw dishes at one of us. I only know he generally missed. I would occasionally lock myself in the bathroom to get away from the violence. He generally knew how to unlock those doors. I ran away from home frequently. I accidentally drove his red Chevy pickup truck into a pond. Someone helped me get it back up on land. I also accidentally set his red Chevy pickup on fire but he wasn't mad. He just laughed. He was a good sport like that. Brother Bob finally totaled it after being broadsided by a UPS truck (malfunctioning traffic light) on the way home from a Grateful Dead concert in Philadelphia. It really was a pretty truck - fire engine red with hand painted gold leaf lettering. It had ladder racks which I'd used as a jungle gym. He mostly put up tin, slate and shingle roofs. The most fun was taking the old shingles, slate and tin he ripped off the old roofs to the landfill in his dump truck which he parked around the corner on Hudson St not far from Gliba's bar (Chambersburg, NJ), dumping it off a cliff along the embankments of the Delaware River - he would back up to the edge as close as he could and hit the gas to attempt to scare us. He didn't. This was also near the huge penicillin and pharmaceutical dump by the Trenton Marine Terminal off Rt. 29 towards White City Lake..
US Navy Veteran. He had one older brother and one older sister. They (Mom & Dad) had three boys (one died - the second one - Russell - his stomach never closed so his guts were exposed and baby Russell only lived a short time, I'm told . I do not know if or where baby Russell was buried) but Mom said he always wanted a girl, anyway. Often I wonder if baby Russell lived and was given up for adoption. I check with 23 and me occasionally to see if any new family surfaced. He told the same stories year after year for over 40 years, yet never spoke about his time in the Navy (the *brotherhood*, code of silence, whatever). He was the baby of his family. He had brown eyes. He said people had brown eyes because they were full of shit up to their forehead. His Mom died when he was 12. He had a severe hearing deficit that was never addressed, as many Veterans do. He was diabetic although it was never addressed. He had metabolic syndrome although it was never addressed. He always kept, cleaned and took great care of his German Ruger which was kept in the headboard of their bed. We learned at an early age where it was and to "respect" it.
He either fished or stayed in his bedroom watching old war movies in his later years and went to flea markets occasionally. His back also started giving out. He refused to go to a doctor. I do not recall that he ever did until his 70's when he developed skin cancer (fisherman's arms). Then he wore a hat like Lawrence of Arabia. They took real good care of him at whichever doctor / hospital he'd gone to. Someone trashed all of his records upon his death as I found only a few after Mom passed away - a statement from CMS Medicare - a summary of claims processed dated 6/13/2003 from a Dr. John W. Petrozzi in Barnegat - $70 for an office visit dated 4/25/03. It was denied. Reason? "a. Our records show that the date of death was before the date of service. b. You do not have to pay this amount., c. The name or Medicare number was incorrect or missing. Ask your provider to use the name or number shown on this notice for future claims." My oldest brother wanted his "Red Dawn" book back. We never found it in the house but we combed through everything looking for it.
He would go meet his buddies for breakfast at a local diner. He was always mad at one of them at any given time. He had a loud, infectious laugh and a loud boisterous voice. He was also a tinsmith and spent a good portion of his Winters melting lead in the basement to make fishing sinkers. He had freezers full of bait (and hundred dollar bills wrapped in tin-foil). He was a phenomenal cook - he loved the typical German/ Polish/ Hungarian meat & potatoes diet. He adored his fatty meats (bacon, pork, Szalolonna, etc....). He never ate anything sugary except for tons of fresh fruit nightly. He only ate Wonder Bread (white) and tons of processed lunch meats (favorite was Lebanon Bologna). He came home for lunch daily for his bread and tomato sandwich w. fresh radishes on the side w. salt, He did like his Navy Bean Soup with ham. He also spent his afternoons at the American Legion drinking beer. The only "ritual" I remember aside from cleaning his gun weekly and going to Church with us once a year (Christmas) was breaking out the Limburger cheese every Sunday. That was the day we would all hold our noses and run out of the house screaming.
He would go fishing twice a week - a 1 1/2 hr. drive from Trenton & Lawrenceville, NJ to Waretown, NJ, where he docked his boat. There was a sharp turn around Cranberry Lake where he would drive 100MPH to try to scare us. It didn't. While smoking his cigars (that was not fun). I did, however, have many, many night terrors most of my younger life about being trapped in a car underwater, among others. Until I learned how to escape one if it indeed happened. My friends all received a glass-break tool for the holidays one year. www.thebugoutbagguide.com/best-car-escape-tool/
He taught me how to shoot guns, ride horses, sail and swim (by throwing me in deep waters without any life vest while he laughed),. I am not sure why so many fathers do this to their daughters....one would think they'd teach them how to swim, first. He taught me how to handle a boat, to navigate through channels, sandbars and the Barnegat Inlet. He taught me how to surf. He taught me to water ski (without knowing how to swim). He taught me to snow ski. He taught me how to drive (while using a quick backhand across the face if I made my turns too wide). He taught me how to shoot bow and arrow. He taught me how to shuffle, deal and play cards. He taught me how to detail a truck. He left me a $2,000 John Hancock Life Insurance policy which allowed me to purchase a Windows Millenium Edition Dell Dimension computer - my first Windows computer which enabled me to go back to school after my aneurysm. He taught me how to "be kind to animals" (after he beat them till they would no longer move) - I skip that part (hurting them). He & Mom hunted wild game (rabbits, pheasants and deer)) with 2 beagles (Tiny and Nellie who was later replaced by Rosie) which were kept outside year long. He had another dog before them - Speck. And another beagle, Queenie. He didn't mind me bringing home as many animals (and amphibians) as I was able. Except for snakes. Mom had a snake phobia and even the tiniest garter snake upset her, so I learned not to bring home snakes after the first one.
He frequently had his drinking buddies at the house till late at night. Mom always loved Frank Sinatra, hence he did his best to emulate him in every way he could. He built a beautiful bar in the basement - I was the family bartender. He got a player piano which was quite fun. He set us up with pinball machines, pool table, juke boxes, bowling machines, arcades, etc....which he'd gotten from his friend, Whitey Bralynski from Browns Novelty, who supplied the arcade, pinball machines & shooting games.to local diners, bowling alleys, etc. - an all cash business.
He & Mom hunted deer with bow and arrow together, also. They beat the shit out of us, whipped my brothers and I frequently (I was the only one to hit back). One of the more favorite methods of "teaching" was total isolation for a day or night or more (locked in a completely dark cellar way). He was not the major disciplinarian (at least not for me). We won't go there. He taught me how to not give a fuck about life although it was against my grain. The medical profession convinced him knee implants (which his body rejected) and various other surgeries would improve his quality of life - while in his 70's. They, as well as Medicare or the V.A. (not sure which), squeezed the last bit of benefits out of him prior to his death. He began getting major headaches. He took shark cartilage which his buddies told him would help with pain. He died a few months after these surgeries after he insisted he did not want a nurse visiting his house to change the packings after they removed a good portion of his colon. Unless of course, his insurance would not cover it. Mom was unable to pack his wounds. His neighbor Bobby LeFebvre would go over and do this. Dad never exercised although climbing up and down a ladder in his younger years qualified for a while. Other than passive sports (bowling) while younger. he did practice his boxing skills on the family although that extended out to cage fighting, MMA and simply total loss of control of his anger (on 3 little kids). Wills Eye Hospital in Philadelphia attempted to convince him he needed to have an eye surgery - he left there in the middle of the night - Mom and her neighbor, Judy, drove to go get him at 2AM. I had just returned to work after the aneurysm and could not leave my job II was partially blind and was taking the bus) so I was on the phone with Mom throughout the night. The hospital also attempted to convince him he'd had a brain aneurysm (he did not). He did have a small stroke one Thanksgiving Day and refused treatment at that time. But one day a week or two later he walked into a wall, fell, knocked himself out splitting his head open (and one eye went crooked) which concerned them, hence a visit to the hospital. We all do love the holidays, after all. Wills Eye Hospital removed one of my Mother's eyes - she was in her 70's also. They like to take eyes when they can - someone can always use them. He was a Democratic Committeeman in Lawrenceville, NJ, USA. He was also a boxer on his ship, a ship's cook, a roofing contractor, a great singer and comedian, and made friends wherever he went. He could be a very sharp dresser. He was also a die hard fisherman, a Charter Boat captain, and skilled builder, card player, gardener and carpenter. He was also an asshole, bigot and a stubborn fuck all his life. To the best of my knowledge, in spite of his earlier years as a boxer, he was never evaluated for TBI, trauma, hearing loss or any other neurological impairment or injury.
His favorite song was Frank Sinatra's "My Way". He loved to watch Dean Martin, All In The Family and Three's Company. He liked Chrissy. He never liked any of my friends and called all of my girlfriends (since elementary school) whores. He left instructions for Mom on how much to sell his boat, cars and trucks for and what to do with all his fishing stuff (an entire garage full) - that was very considerate, I thought. Once he & Mom were going to get a divorce - Dad said we had to choose who we wanted to live with. Ironically, I chose Dad. Brother Bob (the middle child) went hysterical and could not choose. So they reconciled after counseling with our Church pastor, we became The Brady Bunch and moved to the illustrious suburbs. Both he & Mom had themselves cremated and dumped in the Barnegat Inlet. We took Mom out on a neighbor's boat (Al Casamente, one of his fishing buddies who later was hitting on Mom, she said) - not sure who took Dad - perhaps it was one of his fishing buddies Jimmy McCarty. When their cat, Max died here in Kentucky his ashes were shipped to NJ and his neighbor Bobby again took care of it, so Max should be out there living with the fishes as well. I do not even remember which war Dad was in. - with everyone in our families on both sides generations back in wars, it became impossible to remember whose was whose, mostly because when I'd asked there were many different answers their paperwork disappeared. There was no obituary. No memorial service.
I was told two versions of how his Mom died. One was she was at the "beauty parlor" and died from what was called "beauty parlor stroke syndrome". The other story was she was getting her hair done and there was a mob bombing in which she was killed.
While Mom was sorting out his belongings after he allegedly committed suicide, she said she found a black bra in his closet. This would most likely account for why all of his belongings were disposed of.
RIP, Dad. Thank you for preparing me to deal with senior citizens. I hope I haven't created too much havoc as your Daughter (if I really was).
With Love,
Dysfunctional Veteran's Daughter
Moral of Story: Drinking, drugs, babysitters & kids don't mix. Think about it.
In my dreams you were perfect
When I woke up you were perfect
Stay forever who you are
Don't change a thing
Cause you're perfect
You sway, gently in the breeze
In between my dreams
Lyrics from 'Perfect' by Vanessa Amorosi
I haven't had one of these dreams in a while ... I wish I would. I'm missing Toby a lot lately, and perhaps that's why I felt motivated to make this: to remind me.
The foreground image of Toby is the photo from Adelaide Mental Health Service that was published in the newspapers when her body was found and police were appealing for information. I keep revisiting it partly because I still find it a little disturbing, and partly because it's the last photo of her alive ... or the last one I know about, and so it's the image I return to when I'm thinking about the end of her life. The image behind was taken at our wedding [Brad and mine], when Toby was 8 years old, and it really captures the serious gentle quiet side of her personality.
After playing with several different versions, I placed the images like this because the child is further in the past than the adult. And I need to remind myself of that, because if Toby were alive, it would be the adult Toby - not the child. Also, when the adult Toby was behind the child, she looked menacing for some reason, whereas in the foreground, the expression on her face seems changeable - sometimes it looks like she's about to smile, although I doubt she was about to smile when this mugshot was taken. And I think she looks as she did in the end: mostly quite innocent and trusting despite bouts of mistrust and hypervigilance: fairly harmless and crazy.
When I use the term 'crazy', it's not meant as an insult and I don't want to cause any offense. It's just that the 'correct' terms seem so clinical and sanitised - removed from what it's really like to watch helplessly while someone you love struggles with and then succumbs to the torment of mental illness. At times it really seemed as though she had been possessed. So, for me, the less correct, more primitive and emotive term reflects the horror I felt. Also, it was the term she used. And, in a way it's less formal and a little more affectionate ... well that's my rationalisation, anyway ...
The texture is ishkamina’s Sepia Bokeh, used in an attempt to create a dream-like quality, and soften the images
I've been up all night ... I'm off to bed now.
Last night, I went in for an overnight sleep study, trying to find out why I'm tired, despite usually getting 7 or so hours of sleep. It was pretty interesting, but not even close for apnea. I'm just old, fat, have too much stress and snore occasionally. With a side of PTSD that expresses itself in sleep paralysis, hypervigilance, and OBE. I have a pretty nonstandard sleep history, apparently. As someone who appreciates interesting experiences, this one was not so bad, though I don't care to replicate it. www.susanblackmore.co.uk/Conferences/SPR99.html
Posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is an anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to one or more terrifying events that threatened or caused grave physical harm.
It is a severe and ongoing emotional reaction to an extreme psychological trauma.[3] This stressor may involve someone's actual death, a threat to the patient's or someone else's life, serious physical injury, or threat to physical or psychological integrity, overwhelming psychological defenses.
In some cases it can also be from profound psychological and emotional trauma, apart from any actual physical harm. Often, however, the two are combined.
PTSD is a condition distinct from traumatic stress, which has less intensity and duration, and combat stress reaction, which is transitory. PTSD has also been recognized in the past as railway spine, shell shock, battle fatigue, traumatic war neurosis, or post-traumatic stress syndrome (PTSS).
Diagnostic symptoms include reexperience such as flashbacks and nightmares, avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma, increased arousal such as difficulty falling or staying asleep, anger and hypervigilance. Per definition, the symptoms last more than 6 months and cause significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning (e.g. problems with work and relationships.)[
David Hall's 'End Piece' exhibition, Ambika P3, Marylebone, London.
iPhone 4 + Snapseed, ScratchCam.
Oil pastel, pencil & acrylic inks on paper 30X15”
Hat of Hypervigilance
I wear a hat, a hat of Hypervigilance, and some times Hat wears me. A potent, poignant, peacock hat, a feathery plume and pervading eye that traces around the room, so as not to die. “I’m not a hatter” or so they said. But I suppose If wear my hat to bed, “this could be construed as strange” they said.
Hat becomes aroused at the slightest noise, she sits up straight with such poise, a flight of fright I hide in Hat, for hours sometimes their we sat, a nocturnal journal such an art, around the room owl eyes dart. The crowning glory to adorn that hat was a light house gaze and stealth of cat, it scans the perimeter far and wide it has laser beam rays, and x-ray eyes, that see for miles
I have a witty hat, a hat of receptive green, red alert piping and ostentatious it seams. Luxurious quivering velvet, It’s a top hat the crème de la crème. Framing face no disgrace, I hide under hem, “it suits you right down to the ground” they said, “why never wasting space upon your head”. I heed Hat, she warns me of impending doom, black clouds that can consume a room.
Hat sees around corners and even through walls, she scans friend or foe, key holes and doors. With dreadlock dread and peacock prance over a pale thin waif she keeps lofty stance. It’s a hat of inquisition and sensory stimuli, she banished latent inhibition, Hat says “its do or die”.
I boast a thinking hat, an aristocratic hat and purple dandy satin sash, a fashion fopar of balderdash, a scarlet veil, a seclusion attached at rim. This arduous adornment my head is in a spin and full of dread, “don’t flip your lid my dear” they said, “you must endeavour to keep a cool head”.
Hat never becomes ruffled you understand, she fans my brow with vine like hands. I buckle under suspicious thread; it’s a heavy load for one small head. I must not quibble for Hats trouble she keeps me safe and sound. A parasitic sisterhood on top, up tight and bound, she keeps cold blood but warm head. Under Hat I’m hung by thread, out of sight and sound.
I own a hat, or you could say she owns me, I’m under wraps and under Hat, it’s a hard hat observatory. With vice like grip Hat holds head tight, I’m underfed and full of fright what an appalling plight I’m so mislead. “Madam you are talking through your hat”, they said. “But I believe that hat talks through me, can you not see”?
One hat fits all and all to see, Hat a perfectionists act, around and around rim we go. Over edge never slow, pulse it quickens and breathless gasp, plot it thickens, this maybe my last. Like a hole in head I need Hat, I bid you all farewell, No time to chat, ill be going now, at the drop of my hat, going going gone and “that is that”. Said hat…….
By Nikki Ella Whitlock
So I know it's this thing they're worried about, but if we are going to live in so much fear that we cannot take photos (or go shopping!) then THE TERRORISTS HAVE WON.
Because I'm sure that thousands photos have not been taken of downtown LA and that any photos necessary for a terrorist plot have yet to be obtained, so preventing photos is going to save thousands of lives as well as the liberty and freedom of our nation.
Out of curiosity, I did a search for photographs of the US Bank building. I found over 500. Including someone who shows their plans for building a model of the building, likely to blow it up with model planes. I'm surprised the guy still has his head. And how is Wikipedia still around throwing challenges out at terrorists to blow up the world's tallest buildings?
Malingering's Terrorist Plot: part 4/4
Ernst Mo (an anagram of ‘Monster’) is a female delivery rider who works for a platform called Delivery Dancer in the fictitious Seoul. In this fiction, Seoul is a labyrinth of endlessly regenerating routes, and the Dancers (workers of Delivery Dancer) pursue never-ending delivery work under the control of a master algorithm called Dancemaster. This work is not only about the gig economy and platform labor, which have become immensely popular in South Korea, especially during the pandemic, but also about the topological labyrinth, the possible world(s), the hypervigilance, and the accelerationist urge for optimization of body, time, and space. It contains hints of a queer relationship with a counterpart from another possible world. The work is a mixture of 3D animation and live-action shooting.
ayoungkim.com/wp/3col/delivery-dancers-sphere-2022
Credit: Written and directed by Ayoung Kim / Produced by Heejung Oh / Assistant director: Chae Yu / Project managers: Junyoung Lee, Yoojin Jang / Delivery riding advisor: Yiseul An / Physics advisor: Mankeun Jeong / Mathematics advisor: Seoyeon Kim / Actors: Seokyung Jang, Soojeong Hwang / Director of photography: Syeyoung Park / Music, sound mixing and mastering: Đ.K. (aka Dang Khoa Chau) / Editing: Hyunji Lee, Ayoung Kim, Chae Yu / VFX and motion graphics: Hyunji Lee / Unity level design: B. Paul Sandoval Lopez, Sanghun Heo / Unity animation: Sanghun Heo / Maya Modeling and Animation: Jaehwan Hwang / Lidar Scanning: Jieun Kim
The Gift of Fear and other Survival Signals that Protect us from Violence.
New article on ITS Tactical: itstac.tc/OkaBhB
Ernst Mo (an anagram of ‘Monster’) is a female delivery rider who works for a platform called Delivery Dancer in the fictitious Seoul. In this fiction, Seoul is a labyrinth of endlessly regenerating routes, and the Dancers (workers of Delivery Dancer) pursue never-ending delivery work under the control of a master algorithm called Dancemaster. This work is not only about the gig economy and platform labor, which have become immensely popular in South Korea, especially during the pandemic, but also about the topological labyrinth, the possible world(s), the hypervigilance, and the accelerationist urge for optimization of body, time, and space. It contains hints of a queer relationship with a counterpart from another possible world. The work is a mixture of 3D animation and live-action shooting.
ayoungkim.com/wp/3col/delivery-dancers-sphere-2022
Credit: Written and directed by Ayoung Kim / Produced by Heejung Oh / Assistant director: Chae Yu / Project managers: Junyoung Lee, Yoojin Jang / Delivery riding advisor: Yiseul An / Physics advisor: Mankeun Jeong / Mathematics advisor: Seoyeon Kim / Actors: Seokyung Jang, Soojeong Hwang / Director of photography: Syeyoung Park / Music, sound mixing and mastering: Đ.K. (aka Dang Khoa Chau) / Editing: Hyunji Lee, Ayoung Kim, Chae Yu / VFX and motion graphics: Hyunji Lee / Unity level design: B. Paul Sandoval Lopez, Sanghun Heo / Unity animation: Sanghun Heo / Maya Modeling and Animation: Jaehwan Hwang / Lidar Scanning: Jieun Kim
Ernst Mo (an anagram of ‘Monster’) is a female delivery rider who works for a platform called Delivery Dancer in the fictitious Seoul. In this fiction, Seoul is a labyrinth of endlessly regenerating routes, and the Dancers (workers of Delivery Dancer) pursue never-ending delivery work under the control of a master algorithm called Dancemaster. This work is not only about the gig economy and platform labor, which have become immensely popular in South Korea, especially during the pandemic, but also about the topological labyrinth, the possible world(s), the hypervigilance, and the accelerationist urge for optimization of body, time, and space. It contains hints of a queer relationship with a counterpart from another possible world. The work is a mixture of 3D animation and live-action shooting.
ayoungkim.com/wp/3col/delivery-dancers-sphere-2022
Credit: Written and directed by Ayoung Kim / Produced by Heejung Oh / Assistant director: Chae Yu / Project managers: Junyoung Lee, Yoojin Jang / Delivery riding advisor: Yiseul An / Physics advisor: Mankeun Jeong / Mathematics advisor: Seoyeon Kim / Actors: Seokyung Jang, Soojeong Hwang / Director of photography: Syeyoung Park / Music, sound mixing and mastering: Đ.K. (aka Dang Khoa Chau) / Editing: Hyunji Lee, Ayoung Kim, Chae Yu / VFX and motion graphics: Hyunji Lee / Unity level design: B. Paul Sandoval Lopez, Sanghun Heo / Unity animation: Sanghun Heo / Maya Modeling and Animation: Jaehwan Hwang / Lidar Scanning: Jieun Kim
The last in this little series...for now...
For those who hadn't guessed, the posters and graffiti in this series are my own work, done in the safety of my digital darkroom, rather than with spray can in hand.
thewalrus.ca/foundation/projects/poetry-prize/
SCARECROW MAINTENANCE
by Brent Raycroft
The old man’s itchy greatcoat fell to me
and given his complaint of its intransigence
I landed on the notion of storing it in the open.
Now that he can’t feel the elements
why not put this remnant of him in them?
There’s acid in the rain enough, enough UV,
that what outlasted him may not outlast me.
Get a pole and cross-pole. Fix them together.
Fence wire, screw nails, duct tape, whatever.
The less seen of this part the better.
There’s no need for carpentry. Let him be
haphazard. Let him fail in a high wind,
collapse with the weight of a cloudburst.
He should need maintenance.
When the pumpkin rots it’s shocking. Try a
punctured soccer ball. Or a mask from art class.
When the straw hat’s gone, tack on a baseball cap.
When you find him flattened by some enemy,
reach your arm beneath his backbone,
thin within the war-green wool, and heave.
Stamp your heel down hard where he is planted.
Crows come regardless.
Deer and rabbits act as though he’s harmless.
But I’ve seen men and women startled.
I’ve backed into him, hoeing in the garden,
felt a poke between my shoulder blades.
He’s got hypervigilance. Low-level PTSD.
Those sleeves held wide show no sign of fatigue.
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Image Sources: Ft Williams Park-brittneynickerson; chickens_png_by_jean52_deksje9; bmw-2722258-Momentmal-Pixabay; Women from Mizzd-Stock on Deviant Art; trabant-601-6187865-Pixabay; Crow pngwing.com (5);
reader's choice
thewalrus.ca/foundation/projects/poetry-prize/
SCARECROW MAINTENANCE
by Brent Raycroft
The old man’s itchy greatcoat fell to me
and given his complaint of its intransigence
I landed on the notion of storing it in the open.
Now that he can’t feel the elements
why not put this remnant of him in them?
There’s acid in the rain enough, enough UV,
that what outlasted him may not outlast me.
Get a pole and cross-pole. Fix them together.
Fence wire, screw nails, duct tape, whatever.
The less seen of this part the better.
There’s no need for carpentry. Let him be
haphazard. Let him fail in a high wind,
collapse with the weight of a cloudburst.
He should need maintenance.
When the pumpkin rots it’s shocking. Try a
punctured soccer ball. Or a mask from art class.
When the straw hat’s gone, tack on a baseball cap.
When you find him flattened by some enemy,
reach your arm beneath his backbone,
thin within the war-green wool, and heave.
Stamp your heel down hard where he is planted.
Crows come regardless.
Deer and rabbits act as though he’s harmless.
But I’ve seen men and women startled.
I’ve backed into him, hoeing in the garden,
felt a poke between my shoulder blades.
He’s got hypervigilance. Low-level PTSD.
Those sleeves held wide show no sign of fatigue.
Ernst Mo (an anagram of ‘Monster’) is a female delivery rider who works for a platform called Delivery Dancer in the fictitious Seoul. In this fiction, Seoul is a labyrinth of endlessly regenerating routes, and the Dancers (workers of Delivery Dancer) pursue never-ending delivery work under the control of a master algorithm called Dancemaster. This work is not only about the gig economy and platform labor, which have become immensely popular in South Korea, especially during the pandemic, but also about the topological labyrinth, the possible world(s), the hypervigilance, and the accelerationist urge for optimization of body, time, and space. It contains hints of a queer relationship with a counterpart from another possible world. The work is a mixture of 3D animation and live-action shooting.
ayoungkim.com/wp/3col/delivery-dancers-sphere-2022
Credit: Written and directed by Ayoung Kim / Produced by Heejung Oh / Assistant director: Chae Yu / Project managers: Junyoung Lee, Yoojin Jang / Delivery riding advisor: Yiseul An / Physics advisor: Mankeun Jeong / Mathematics advisor: Seoyeon Kim / Actors: Seokyung Jang, Soojeong Hwang / Director of photography: Syeyoung Park / Music, sound mixing and mastering: Đ.K. (aka Dang Khoa Chau) / Editing: Hyunji Lee, Ayoung Kim, Chae Yu / VFX and motion graphics: Hyunji Lee / Unity level design: B. Paul Sandoval Lopez, Sanghun Heo / Unity animation: Sanghun Heo / Maya Modeling and Animation: Jaehwan Hwang / Lidar Scanning: Jieun Kim