View allAll Photos Tagged Hypocrite
Many thousands of people came together. There were so many people that they were stepping on each other. Before Jesus spoke to the people, he said to his followers, “Be careful of the yeast of the Pharisees. I mean that they are hypocrites.
A Sword “Unmatched by Precedent” (Unlikely to Be Found):
Let us quote exactly what Tahsin Öz, the former museum director, wrote about the sword and its epitaph on pages 38 and 39 of this book:
“At the time this sword was opened for inventory, the sword had a thicker layer of rust than other swords. When it was cleaned, human images and writings were found on it, and it appeared that these were real.
The hilt of the sword is covered with black leather on wood and the cross guard is made of iron. Its length is 101 inches. The base is wide and the two edges are sharp and the tip is pointed. There is a picture of a person near the hilt of the base, holding a sword in one hand and a head in the other. There is an Arabic line under it, which is well deserved, and among the writings there is another type of writing (perhaps Nabati) whose type we cannot determine. In the last line, the names of David, Solomon, Musa, Harun, Joshua, Zekeriyya, Yahya, Isa, Muhammad can be read.
The iron of this sword is made of white metal, and it is extremely sharp and has a characteristic that cannot be matched. However, it was impossible to determine its nature from the partially readable writings on it. After a while, while the works in the palace’s warehouse called the Emanrt Treasure were being classified, a copper inscription caught our attention. Because it had the same pictures on the sword. One side of this inscription was in Arabic with 32 lines and 28 lines on the other side were in the aforementioned font. The picture here was more obvious than the sword.
Head of the Inscription of the Sword
After giving this technical information about the sword and its inscription, Tahsin Öz goes to the summary of the inscription. This is where the real oddities come together.
On one side of this strange inscription, there is a figure holding a sword in one hand and a severed head in the other hand, similar to the sword (as seen in the picture); However, there are major differences between them that seem small. It is as follows: The picture of the man with the sword -it is understood that this picture represents Prophet David – has a funnel-shaped cone on his head, while the figure in the inscription has two horns on his head. When this situation is evaluated together with the feet of the figure, it is clearly understood that this picture represents a genie. Because the two figures that look like the feet of the demon (that is, for show) are not actually feet, but the letter ط (Tı) in Arabic. When the letters ط (Tı) are excluded from the picture, the genie’s legs are bent backwards. The picture looks like a talisman when evaluated together with the vefks below. Perhaps the sword was made as a protective talisman.
Pictorial Part of the Sword
The figure holding a sword in one hand and a severed head in the other (the cut head is slightly faint) and depicting the event of Prophet David killing Goliath is depicted on the sword.
On the face of the copper inscription with a genie picture, a text that cannot be understood in which language and alphabet draws attention. Anyone familiar with occult sciences can understand that these writings, which Tahsin Bey, the former director of the museum, said “may be Nabataean”, are talismanic writings about demons. Historians are well aware of the genie issue. Therefore, Tahsin Bey may have guessed that these writings were jinn, but he did not want to express it from his book, which he wrote in an academic and official style, because this is a metaphysical issue..(?)
Jinn can be written in many different secret alphabets; We can see the common vefk characters here both on the sword and in the inscription.
The story of Talut and Goliath described in Surah Baccarat and the depictions on the sword and inscription in the Topkapı Palace Museum draw attention to the same event. And in the inscription of the sword, it is written that the sword will be delivered to the Mahdi. The relevant sections in the book are as follows.
“Ali says; I found this sword and plate in the treasury of Melik Mukavkis, the owner of Egypt. He had a narration from Prophet David in Syriac and Hebrew. He says; When Goliath became hostile to me, I made a sword and an arrow as my Lord had taught me. And after the galabeh, God made me victorious. One of the signs of this sword is that; On one side, there is a person with a sword and a head in his hand, and on the other side, a person sitting on the pulpit of the country. That severed head expresses my killing of Goliath, and the one sitting on the pulpit expresses his judgment on Solomon and everything. This blessed sword will reach Prophet Yusuf… After that, Hazrat. It reaches Zechariah, then Yahya, and then Jesus. Then it is presented to the Prophet Muhammad. After his death, he reaches Hazrat Abu Bakr. Then he inherited his son Muhammad. Ali bin Abu Talib appoints Muhammad as governor of Egypt. Then he dies. And the sword returns to the treasure of Prophet Yusuf. Then it remains hidden until the 880th year of the Hijra. Elif will be transferred to Egypt. After the Ottomans state is complete, they will fight until the time of Kuffar Mahdi. God bless them. Then the sword will pass to the Mahdi, the owner of the time, and it will reach the Prophet Jesus. With him, the one-eyed hypocrite ibn-i siyat will murder the Dajjal. Allah and His Messenger reported them as secret sciences.”
The strangeness in the copper inscription continues.
There is an Arabic text on the back of the inscription (Image above) and what is described in this text contains information that seems contradictory at first glance. The mystery of the text, which includes some of the prophecies that have come true, is knotted in a picture of a ship encrypted with the science of cifir. But before that, the point that draws our attention is that; There is something strange about saying that Prophet David’s sword will reach Prophet Yusuf. Because Prophet Yusuf lived and died centuries before Prophet David. How is it that the sword reaches other prophets after Prophet Yusuf and returns to Yusuf’s treasury this time. It’s like talking about a time spiral. The strangeness of the chronology given in this inscription, which was preserved and preserved by the Ottomans for centuries, must have been noticed by the Ottomans immediately, because the tradition of religious sciences was always very widespread and developed in the Ottoman Empire. Therefore, it is almost impossible that they did not notice this strangeness. Moreover, the inscription mentions the “Completion of the Ottoman Empire”, that is, the collapse of the state. At that time, even if anyone said such a thing, it would probably result in my extradition. So why did the Ottoman state preserve and protect these pieces for centuries? That is a separate question that remains a mystery.
I would like to offer to the voters in the JewSA a little light, to vote for the right hypocritic POTUS candidate on the Tuesday's Quadrennial Freak Show.
I hate Christmas shopping.
(Not sure what the picture of the child's face was about in a shop selling wedding dresses).
A humbug is a person or object that behaves in a deceptive or dishonest way, often as a hoax or in jest. The term was first described in 1751 as student slang, and recorded in 1840 as a "nautical phrase". It is now also often used as an exclamation to describe something as hypocritical nonsense or gibberish.
Taunton, Somerset, UK.
I have not been to church in years. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in something and this little church up the road I often walk to where I may “talk to God” or whoever / whatever you or I may believe in. I find it a peaceful spot but, I don’t believe in being obligated "to pay" to go to a Church to speak with God or hear what someone interprets the bible to mean. I realize the Church has bills and payments but the obligation of paying to attend regardless does not sit well with me.
I would rather go to my “inner room” and that means to me I can just go and walk near this little church outside and speak with God just like Mathew 6:6 says “And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites. For they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. Truly I tell you, they already have their full reward. But, when you pray, go into your inner room, shut your door, and pray to your Father, who is unseen. And your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.”
Whatever you believe and how you practice your faith I respect you for your views and faith and hopefully, you too will feel the same for me. As an aside, I do believe in the power of prayer and miracles.
As I walked by I always look up as the church is located up off the road and the light caught my eye coming through the stained glass window here so I grabbed a shot.
Resized in ON1 Photo Raw 2022 for the web only. Have a wonderful day!
I may not always have time to thank you all for your visits and comments but rest assured, that I do read them and am very appreciative that you took the time to pop by and see what I see here "North of 7" in Rural Eastern Ontario (North Frontenac Township) or, where ever else I might be with my camera now that I am retired and loving it.
(A response to Quote the Raven )
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"
At the risk of sounding preachy, this photo comes with a message:
"Dear Flickr friends, while we all want to capture and display wonderful photographs, please be careful when you head out in the elements to capture them! Our photos should NOT be 'to die for'."
While we don't yet know how this story will play out, it certainly seems as if this gentleman may have lost his life trying to capture the perfect photograph out in Holland State Park, a place where my friend and I had been taking pictures just a few days before:
www.woodtv.com/Global/story.asp?S=7798476
I look forward to seeing everyone's photographs, but I look forward to seeing everyone safe even more.
(*** I am happy to report that it seems the Holland case had a happy ending ... apparently they found the guy and he's alive!
www.woodtv.com/Global/story.asp?S=7798476
But I still think the message to "be careful and stay safe" remains just as valid! ***)
Best,
Chris
(p.s. Just so I don't sound like a complete hypocrite: this photo is taken at full 300mm equivalent telephoto, and it's cropped ... I wasn't nearly as close to that freezing water as it seems!)
Thanks a million to all my flickr friends for all your visits, assistence & guidance in improving my photography skills.
" Humanity is a pigsty where liars , hypocrites and the obscene in spirit congregate
Menara HLA , Jalan Kia Peng . Kuala Lumpur . MY
" Wonderful and amazing work, Ian. Somewhat struck by the words, too. It's not an image to just glance at. It's beautiful light and shadows in a fluidity and because of the nature of the silhouette and gradients, the image starts to emerge and change in a way similar to clouds in the sky. "
by Artsee Fartsee.
Matthew 16:2-3, King James Version
2 He answered and said unto them, When it is evening, ye say, It will be fair weather: for the sky is red.
3 And in the morning, It will be foul weather to day: for the sky is red and lowering. O ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky; but can ye not discern the signs of the times?
Weather lore offers us an insight into our days. We are sheltered from the climate and some changes. We are still needing to live within nature and to make a balanced harmony of our lives as best as we can.
The Pentland Hills are magnificent and here is a share of their beauty.
© PHH Sykes 2024
phhsykes@gmail.com
Pentland Hills Regional Park
Red sky at night and other weather lore
www.metoffice.gov.uk/weather/learn-about/weather/how-weat...
Gospel of Matthew 16:2-3, King James Version.
Classified in the flickstrsBETA
«N'est-il pas raisonnable de penser que les gens qui ne boivent jamais de vin sont des imbéciles ou des hypocrites ? Des imbéciles, c'est-à-dire ne connaissent ni la nature, ni l'homme... Des hypocrites, c'est-à-dire des gourmands honteux, des fanfarons de sobriété, buvant en cachette ou ayant quelque vie occulte...
Un homme qui ne boit que de l'eau a un secret à cacher à ses semblables.»
[Charles Baudelaire]
christinelebrasseur.blogspot.com/
Darckr by Laurent Henocque - More photos - DNA - Ipernity - MySpace - Redbubble - Linked In
I'm sick and tired of hearing things
From uptight, shortsighted, narrow-minded hypocrites
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
John Lennon ~
Definition: "an expression of disappointment or disgust"
This image summarizes my opinion of those hypocritical Senators who are blocking a bill to help veterans exposed to burn pits. They are the same ones who are always ready to send our young into war, but are unwilling to fully care for them when they came home injured. FOO on the lot of them. :((
P,S, Hats off to Jon Stewart for his straight talk on this travesty !
Nature gives us an amazing amount of wonders and within her bounty we find similarities upon which we decide to have reflections and those can lead us on to further investigation with wondrous revelations. The figure created by the silhouette of The Pentland Hills is an amazing sight and she can transform her image from different positions even appearing as if she is pregnant from one vantage. Here Mono and Colour are used to give a further insight into the Sleep Skyline Figure that may have been seen as a Goddess, as Geology in transition and also held so many regards that have been given and lost even as she is found in the landscape today and will with weathering and other developments over many, many years be seen as something vastly different than she appears today.
The Pentland Hills are magnificent and here is a share of their beauty.
I have been mentioning the weather lore of, “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,” and now the mention is still reaching into the links below.
© PHH Sykes 2024
phhsykes@gmail.com
Pentland Hills Regional Park
Red sky at night and other weather lore
www.metoffice.gov.uk/weather/learn-about/weather/how-weat...
Matthew 16:2-3, King James Version
2 He answered and said unto them, When it is evening, ye say, It will be fair weather: for the sky is red.
3 And in the morning, It will be foul weather to day: for the sky is red and lowering. O ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky; but can ye not discern the signs of the times?
Gospel of Matthew 16:2-3, King James Version.
I've been tagged by Kira...
I hope will made a decent work!!!
Now, 16 random things about Me:
•I'm a dreamer, often hidden in My studio for drawing.
•I sleep rarely and for little time, so go in bed really late at night.
•I love to read, expecially G.Musso's books.
•I smoke too much (also in this moment I'm smoking!).
•I like drink Hoegaarden (white beer) or Prosecco!!!
•I believe in God, and also in The Rainbow's Bridge (where my Pets are waiting me...).
•Beatrix was the name of my Granny in RL
•I don't leave home without a bottle of water.
•I think (and I'm happy of this) I'm crazy!
•I would die for my Parents.
•I love snow & snowboarding.
•I hate worms, bleah!
•I love some colors: yellow, purple and brown.
•My astrological signs is Leo (so, I'm lazy real like a lion...).
•I love to eat Pizza or at Mc Donald's (double cheeseburger+double chips+Coke).
•I hate the hypocrisy and hypocritical people!!!!
in Solidarity with Moulich, i am in strike again !!!
all began yesterday when Moulich had a simple photo moderated.
Today, right now, she has her account Unsafe.
as a woman, i must tell i am deeply chocked with this seen a few of Moulich’ photos catch in a fantastic way OUR inner beauty.
all the rest are just wonderful flowers, photos from Paris and so one ....
i must tell too Moulich is a great photographer and a very courageous woman,
qualities we don’t find all days.
as a human being i feel once more revolted with these policies and of course i cannot be silent, i'ld be hypocrite with myself ....
i will be around.
Love to All !!!
luisa
My love is like cheap mascara. It smears all over my face when it rains. It’s hard to drown a lovestory into ink. Poetry doesn’t heal anything anymore so I’m gluing it to the asphalt, to the buildings, to the lighting poles, in the street. Quietly and hungry. I roam in a world without friendships. with only obscure interests cleverly kept unexposed, knowing that nobody reads anymore. In a world that I loved but that now makes me sick. Tell me you recognize this beggar. Even the dogs bark at me. I know, 50 years has passed. I know I said I’d find you and clean you from all the prejudices at the cost of burning the ground around you. Yeah, ok you will catch fire, so what? As I don’t know any other hydrant in the neighborhood, my preservation instinct will kick in. I’m shoeless here before this puddle cracked by a hypocrite bouquet of flowers. Not even the water can sink the guilt. People mixed up with Bukowski pass me by thinking I’m like an Escher drawing distorted by the rain. I can hear Bach from a window somewhere. It doesn’t muffle the disaster left behind. But I insist, I’m more like an IKEA vase with plastic flowers. Stop pouring water inside! It arrived at my ankles. I can’t move. And what the hell? I’m freezing.
On a rainy day a beautiful man stopped beside me to breathe.
Tom Grennan - Run in the Rain
I told my therapist i didn't want to do that 10 character list and pictures of my self.
so she asked why am i afraid to showing my self to the world and why am i afraid of what they see in me?
so i just got up burned a CD of the pictures i had that i thought kinda matched the 10 Me's on my list and went to develop them.
I was so embarrassed to do so !! because some are showing skin (no nude ones though!) anyway...
lucky for me they didn't have any mat paper so i had to leave it there and come back when its ready.
and when i came back i hurried to the car and only then took a look to discover they printed it FILL and not FIT and everything got cropped!
AHHHH!!!
so i had to go in and i went inside to the machine with the manager there and he did it again for me !
i was feeling sick! both of us looking at my pics.. i was just going crazy.
then i came home and my sister said.." i saw ALL your pics" meaning thew ones I've posted here.
with a smirk on her face.. and then she said .." i cant believe you shoot your self like that! and post it !'
I was feeling completely naked today and it felt like crap!!
I know there is no better trial run before i do an exhibition. i mean i am a photographer.. i do want to show my work.
I was feeling angry that my sister saw it that she saw a side of me that i like to keep private.
isn't that crazy???
when i post my images here??
and i realised how hypocritical i am i mean i want to get over all my anxieties and go out to the world and meet people and to be seen.
but then i don't really! i want to remain private and to control who sees what of me
and that's impossible!!
i cant control that.
i guess i am now finally starting to move away from my comfort zone and out into the world and its not easy!!
and its not simple either..
:((
my heartfelt message to all the buffons and hypocrite fuckers that I came across... dear serious Artists, please go and $£%$$ yourself!!! get it?
it is possible to make serious art without a fucking diploma in hand, using few rubber bands and advert in a magazine... get it??
We found a dead moth today and Jenny refused to go near it, even though she let me put the butterfly all over her face.
Hypocrite.
I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A COMPULSIVE DRAWER. I would declare war on every blank area left on notebooks, desks, chalk-boards and school walls. My teachers never appreciated this, but I did win recognition among the other kids. But I was independent and pretty much a loner. I rarely communicated verbally, but I never failed to communicate by using my favourite language: images.
Luckily for me, it was my grandparents who practically raised me, instilling in me all the values I retain to this day. But even though my grandparents offered material and emotional support, I felt abandoned. It was a pain that was muted and sometimes battered into submission, but it invariably came to surface. Plus I sensed that there was something else, a much more disturbing truth that lay at the core of the adult world. Being much too young to identify it, it remained a frustrated inarticulate feeling. But there was something clearly evident in my drawings that expressed those feelings. My talent for drawing, my attention to detail, and above all, my grotesque sense of humor were obvious in the drawings.
By the age of eight, whatever I had lodged in the back of my mind came forward in a blurry approximation in art. It was art that rescued me. Many of the drawings had an underlying dark tone. The drawings gave my incoherent inner world some form of expression and substance, however crudely rendered. Grown-ups had a profound effect on my artistic development, but not in a way they would have approved. I began to observe and to judge people, making evaluations about their nature and characters. This, too, found its way in my drawings. One could see from the progression of drawings a groping and developing maturity. It was a discovery and odyssey of self.
A teacher observed one of my drawings, and obviously dismayed, he asked: “What is the matter Victor?”
I answered: “What is the matter with everybody else?”
A conscious awareness of the adult world came into sharper focus: my overall impression of adults was that they were bogus liars and hypocrites, saying not what they thought, but rather what they believed would serve some particular purpose, some hidden agenda. Everybody came armed with two faces. It seemed to me that the world thrived on bullshit, hypocrisy and lies. I noted a desperate whoring after status, an irrational and pathetic desire to “beat the Jones” followed up by saccharine sentimentality by mealy-mouthed charlatans—and all of it showcased to the people they themselves loathed. Lies, backstabbing, deception, two-faces, malice and hypocrisy was the currency of exchange in the adult world. And so I took a profound disliking to most people I came across. I could sense the spiritual emptiness and viciousness within them. I wanted to like and admire people but I rarely came across anyone who was worthy of it. The only noted exceptions were my grandparents.
I HAD TURNED SIXTEEN JUST A FEW MONTHS before the holidays. Christmas brought distant relatives and immediate family together at the Pross household. For me, people were bad enough on their own but it became worse when they assembled together under the same roof. It was on such occasions that fully demonstrated the insanity and phoniness of these people. I would scan the large living room absorbing the adults sitting on the couches and chairs, each one looking anxious and distant. They were tipsy on day-long benders of Bloody Caesars, making efforts to appear jovial. There was a constant display of smiley backslapping and “Merry Christmases” by people who maligned one another the moment backs were turned. There was an unvarying spectacle of petty bickering over trivia and the sudden surfacing of years-long resentments best forgotten. All the forms of human flaws and ugliness to be found in the world---a world which insists on being imperfect—were on display before the eyes of the juvenile artist.
To lighten the mood, somebody put a dance song on. I watched with keen interest as glasses were overturned by dancing feet and the coffee table was moved out of the way to make room. A frenzy of stimulation bubbled in the room and everyone’s voice rose imperceptibly in pitch. As far as I was concerned, it was a circus.
Each relative represented an unsavory social stereotype or archetype of one kind or another. They were caricatures. From the town’s busy body gossip-monger tyrant--to the dour spinster forever spouting on about “God’s wrath”--to the town’s fast-talking used car salesman who dressed like a big city pimp---to every other stereotype imaginable. It was all there. This was no less true when it came to Uncle Bernard, better known as “Bernie.” Sitting near the Christmas tree, I was observing him closely. He was the jet-set wannabe playboy type. He sported a dyed perm that looked as if had come straight off a Styrofoam head from 1973. Assuming himself a lady-killer, he actually had all the charm of a toupee made of straw dipped in black ink. With each attempt at a pickup he was invariably shot down. “Lesbian!” he would bellow at women who rejected him.
Sitting next to Bernie was my mother, Terry. She was immersed in conversation, laughing with a forced hilarity, her drink spilling over. There was something that troubled me about my mother. She was a woman who was so utterly self-absorbed, forever preoccupied with what others thought. My mother’s sense of personal value was crucially dependent on the image of herself as a glamorous beauty. At the age of thirty-eight, she was wont to ask for reassurances of her looks. “Do you think I have nice legs? I use to be a Go-Go dance, you know?” and “When was the last time you saw a woman as gorgeous as me—and at my age?” With each passing year she began to perceive every wrinkle on her face as a metaphysical menace. Taking aging as a threat to her identity, she plunged into a series of sexual relationships with men fifteen years her junior demanding fresh admiration to assuage her hollowness.
My mother’s constant need for validation annoyed me. I was nevertheless fascinated with human behavior. What I perceived in my mother was a definite narcissism, only I didn’t have the word for it at the age of sixteen. Spurred by mother’s conceit, I decided to try an experiment. I played upon her vanity by offering her a lavish compliment, just to see her reaction. My motive wasn’t flattery for flattery’s sake, it was a psychological experiment.
I tapped my mother on the shoulder, interrupting her conversation.
“Mom?”
My mother turned to me, clearly annoyed, her expression a fusion of wonder and irritation.
“Victor dear, can’t you see I’m talking to this nice gentleman?”
“But mom, I need to tell you something.”
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
“I just wanted to say that…you look just like Marilyn Monroe.”
My mother took a deep intake of breathe. She clapped her hands in appreciation and snuggled her darling son into her arms. “Did you hear that?” she demanded of the guests. The room fell to a hushed silence. “What is it, Terry?” asked a guest. “My boy said I look like Marilyn Monroe. That’s my boy! Oh, he knows a good looking chick when he sees one!” My mother then let out an exuberant laugh, which itself was enough to draw attention. After a few more brandy-laced eggnogs, my mother became more of an embarrassment. She made damn well sure to tell new arrivals at the party what her son had said about her. It was a compliment that was warmly recalled by her for years to come. I had always regretted my causal flattery.
I appreciated the art of caricature more so than ever before. I enjoyed the spectacle of observing the reaction of anyone I nailed in a drawing. When people observed a grotesque drawing I had rendered of them—in dead-on accuracy---they would dissolve in self-consciousness. This had a clinical kind of fascination to me. Although one can be disconcerted at witnessing an open incision, I got some amazing glimpses of their guts. What came out of it was a deeply ingrained self-doubt. I knew my art had the power to reach people. “You are a sick guy, Pross,” said one of my displeased subjects. “How is it that I’m sick,” I responded, amazed by this sudden psychological evaluation. “The drawing portrays how you are—not me.”
Observing my mania for drawing, my grandfather decided to have a heart-to-heart chat with me. He entered my room as I sat at my desk, which was littered with sketchpads of drawings and half-ass watercolors.
Grandfather picked up a sketch pad flipping through it. “You have a real talent there, my boy,” he said. A firm hand rested on my shoulder. “It would be a shame if that went to waste”
I smiled and lowered my head.
“There are a lot of people who always dump on me for drawing, granddaddy.”
He smiled. “When it comes to insults, consider the source---and also try to consider what you think may be their motivation.”
My grandfather put an encouraging arm around me, playfully mussing up my hair.
He pulled up a nearby chair and sat down next to me.
“Now listen to me,” he said with a pinch of gravity, “you have a talent, son—a very evident and rare talent, but you can’t expect it to do all the work for you. You have to hone and develop that talent. If you want to be an artist, it takes practice, practice, practice. It is about hard work. It’s not enough to have talent alone. You need to have a hunger. You understand?”
I smiled. “I need to be a hungry artist?”
“I’m serious, son.”
“I know. So am I”
“Good. That’s right, a hungry artist.”
“I am. It’s like a compulsion. I feel so good when I’m drawing. It lifts me up. I need to express what I have going on inside of me. I suppose that is a hunger.”
I paused for a moment. My grandfather looked at me, his clear blue eyes beaming. His smile conveyed immense admiration…and hope. “I love you, grandson.”
I couldn’t express in words the feeling that I felt so abundantly. The love and admiration I felt for this man was great, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him so for some reason. And so I simply smiled and look downward, hoping that this motion expressed what should have said with words.
Not everyone responded with agitation to the drawings of this teenage caricature artist. Sam Ferguson, the owner of the diner I frequented at the time, was blessed with a robust sense of humor. As he observed one of my renderings, he laughed with his whole body, his heavy-set frame shook like a bowl of Jell-O resting on the clothes dryer in final spin. “You are a crazy son of a bitch!” Gus hollowed. “How do you think of this stuff?” In the drawing, I had Gus lurched over a hot stove stirring the day’s soup special with beads of sweat dripping into the pot. In the background, one can see an unsuspecting customer slurping the broth, bellowing, ‘Gus, I love the extra flavor you added!’
“Come here, my boy,” Gus said, sliding a hamburger and fries over to me. “Here’s your payment for a job well done.”
“You’re paying me for that drawing…by feeding me?”
Gus looked astonished that I was astonished. “Of course! A man should be paid for his work. That drawing is hanging on my wall, and it gives me a great deal of pleasure.”
“It does.”
“You are very talented. Hey, I want to frame it and hang it up on my office wall. How much do you want for it?”
“You just paid me,” I answered, biting into the hamburger.
“No, not that, that’s a token payment, I’m talking about really paying you. That is a work of art we’re talking about!”
“I don’t know…”
“Here,” Gus said, taking my hand and slipping a hundred dollar bill into it.
“Hey man, are you serious—a hundred bucks!”
“Too little?”
“No, this is cool. Thanks Gus!”
“One day you are going to be a famous artist. People will be paying you a lot more than a measly hundred bucks. Hey, don’t think that I’m cheating you…I’m not a rich guy.”
“Come on, Gus, I know that. This is so cool, man. If only my grandfather could see this.”
I realized that I could temper my art with light-hearted humor, the gentle good wit that my grandfather imparted in me—along with the acerbic wit characteristic of Barry McConnell. It was here that this artist punk learned that caricature has both a dark and light face to it. I also learned that the caricatures I drew, and the people who inspired them, were not confined to the community where I lived. They circled the globe. It was to the wider culture that my focus turned. I had so much to learn and so much to express.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
**above photo is of my mother--Terry, my oldest brother--Robert, and Kevin (with his arm around me).
The last nearly four years have seemed like eons for me. Every day that I can bear to pay attention, I am horrified by what atrocities Trump is responsible for. I have gone to so many protests in so many places for so many causes/reasons, both well attended and scarcely attended in good weather and in the middle of a freezing cold winter. There are times I have really questioned what good it even does but a little voice in my head has still told me it was the right thing to do.
But, then the Coronavirus hit and I wondered seriously if protesting was the right thing to do…after reading the statistics in my own city about people of color being killed by the Coronavirus at a much higher rate than white people, I had to ask myself, is it actually a case of white privilege if I protest? This seems like such a strange thing to ask when you are protesting your outrage about a man being killed only because he happened to be Black and existing in America but still I had to ask. Because, if I am part of the problem of spreading this virus and my presence results in more deaths of more people of color, isn’t that defeating the purpose? In addition, how about all of the healthcare workers who have been burdened for so long? Why should I make a choice for them that could affect the survival and treatment of myself and others? It just seemed too risky for this die hard protestor.
I have never dealt with this kind of moral dilemma before. My sense of right and wrong is usually pretty strong and doesn’t leave room for tons of contemplation and deliberation. I can’t really remember the last time I had to seriously ponder “What is the right thing to do in this situation?” asking myself again and again. I usually just know these things intuitively and then try to make my best ethical choice. I’m not saying that I don’t see layers of grey between black and white so much as just I have an idea of how to act in terms of what is right with my soul. I’m also not saying that I don’t learn new things and from the perspective of others and change based on being open to learning. But, the idea of what is fundamentally the ethical choice to make about whether or not to attend a protest for a cause I believe in has never been this difficult before.
And, there is the other side of things that I don’t really like to talk about-the more human side of things. I am unfortunately all too human in my fears about contacting Coronavirus/Covid19. To be honest, I’m the type of person that gets nervous taking a walk in my own neighborhood and gets frustrated when I see the joggers and dog walkers on my street roaming without a mask or groups of a few friends partying on a rooftop in close proximity. It seems pretty hypocritical to me that I’d also be finding myself amidst thousands of people in super close proximity sometimes under overpasses neck to neck, masks or no.
So, what I am saying is that I am actually probably a little paranoid. For a large part of my life, I didn’t realize I was any different from others in my fears until I went to college and learned about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and realized that my irrational fear of death that took hold of me if I didn’t do certain things when I was little-tap my fingers every time I saw a green car, squeeze my toes every time I passed a squirrel-that sort of thing-wasn’t what most kids go through. And, it was crippling. Most of the time, I would cry hysterically thinking I was going to die and great harm would really come to my family and I if I told anyone and voiced these fears out loud. I know, I know…it sounds crazy and doesn’t make tons of sense. And, even though I know that and have gotten better dealing with this side of my self as an adult, it still hasn’t gone away completely. There’s a real instinctual fear that makes me think the worst will happen to me.
The news, of course, doesn’t help…and consider that non essential businesses were shuttered and school was cancelled for the rest of the year, I am even more terrified about the damage this virus can do. Then, there’s also the choir study…where they found that one man in close proximity singing with a choir infected pretty much the whole choir and killed a few too. Of course, this is outdoors, but I still can’t help thinking about all of the times I opened my mouth to chant pro Black Life Matters sentiments even if I was wearing a mask.
And, in many ways, I feel like I am not even worthy enough to say the name of George Floyd or Breonna Taylor who should have turned 27 on Friday, the day that I joined these protests. Because, as someone who is white, I could never know the true horror of this. She was a hero, an EMT worker, and it wasn’t just her own life and her family that was robbed but all of our lives and the sadness is overpowering. So, I ended up saying her name a few thousand times and feeling like I was losing my mind because I couldn’t rewind time and change reality.
I don’t know the answer to all of this and I still don’t know if I contracted the virus or not. But, in any case, I hope that these protests meant something and continue to mean something. Maybe it actually means more to those in power that people would risk their lives to fight for Black Lives and, if those mayors and governors really care about the citizens of their city, they have to act on these social justice issues-hold police accountable, take police out of schools and bring in social workers, counselors, librarians, art and music creative outlets instead. Let’s have a dance class or a drama class instead of kids being subjected to cruel excessive force and mock prison cells from early ages. Surely anything that helps kids is better than something doing active harm. Let’s put more money into mental health facilities instead of incarcerations. Let’s make sure when someone is released from prison that they have a job to go to. Let’s make sure our citizens have healthcare and that there are valid low income housing measures. All of these things will reduce crime and improve the quality of life. That is the direction we need to think in instead of increasing a police force. We need to think about the disparities between communities and races and ensure these people are protected and treated with respect-the same respect and treatment white people have been taking for granted in my country for centuries.
Above: a new mural for George Floyd, murdered by a group of police officers in a complicit system where the police are protected from their evil racist acts.
This mural was recently completed in the past couple of days and is found in Humboldt Park, Chicago on Division Avenue just east of California Ave. Cristian J. Roldán and Esther Kovacs
***All photos are copyrighted***
**
..on a less than perfect weekend ..late at night ..
..in the hypocritical city that "NEVER SINS"..
..seedier underbelly of tOkKa's belly needs to sleep and dream.. of less seeier buns and seedier times.
Happier times and more hopeful times. About cockroaches and toilet kings, and hunkier ;less-chunkier fat kids who played in 'Stand By Me' and the secret identity of the human cockroach hero will always remain secret uponce tOkKa's beaky lips.
.. and as tOkKa sets to sleep.. he dreams..of roaches and buggy bugs and the rusty center stage in Joe's Apartment.
This was 1996 y'all ..Sex,bugs and Rock n' Roll..
..stale underwear was my drug .. and all the chicks digged me ..(ok ..they were pigeons..alright.. !!)
.. catchin' the surf down in the sewers of NYC.. everything was dirty ..and everythings was free.
Yeh..this is the life !! Come on baby.. show me yir thorax !!
Dun' gonna beat up dude that was macin' on my pupa's mama !!
..you just so happy..them feelers never felt so good ticklin' my sewer soaked souls.. 'Gitchy Gitchy Goo!!'
O'yeh.. comeone Mr.Sandman..this one's for the roachs that were Mercilessly flushed out to Coney Island
..i drop the drawers.. wrap m' favourite towel 'round my waist.. give the wink n' leg up to Ralph n' Rodney as i get ready to sing a hanting rendition of :"Funky Towel" ..
as written by Kevin Weist and John Payson and originally Performed by the Roach Chorus..(tOkKa on backup toilet vocals).
The crowd grows deathly ill ..as i bring my vocal chords up to the microphone to sing this sh6t.. ..den as a parT-EH..goes in dah STANKY HiZZOUZE.. the crowd all sings along n' it goez like diz' ..::
~~**
..-- click here if you wish to join the roaches n' sing along --..
..gimmee a slice of that urinal cake before i go ..
..then tOkKie slowly falls fast..fast into a deep,deep sleep and has a very dirty ..but happy dream.
---
Crayons,colour pencil,magic marker,inks, Ph.Shop,Fireworks,Roach Guts,Raid
**
©2005-2007 tOkKa,terrible2z.com ..all other elements © their much respected owners..please respect the copyrights..
with a triple talaq
her life ended as
a beggar on the
streets .it is only
leftovers she eats
outstretched hands
tired feet she is on
the verge of defeat
cheaper than a goat
for sacrifice her life
held by a slender
thread for survival
competes ..her
cosmic fate she
could not cheat
begging on the
streets of ajmer
a dying heart beat
her face covered
hiding her shame
her life an empty
box of sweets ..
One of the things I love is music. Depending on what song, I enjoy the complex arrangements, the harmonies, the melody, the poetic lyrics.. Back when I fist started to listen to Nightwish I noticed that, despite the CD's of them were store in the Metal section of the store, they do more than just scream and riff. And I fell in love with the theatrical lyrics. This is the first song of them I had as a favorite. The first of many to come. Dramatic poetic.. and the combination of Tarja's angelike voice with Marco's rough one sent chills down my spine
I wish I had an angel - Nightwish
I wish I had an angel
For one moment of love
I wish I had your angel tonight
Deep into a dying day
I took a step outside an innocent heart
Prepare to hate me fall when I may
This night will hurt you like never before
Old loves they die hard
Old lies they die harder
I wish I had an angel
For one moment of love
I wish I had your angel
Your Virgin Mary undone
I'm in love with my lust
Burning angel wings to dust
I wish I had your angel tonight
I'm going down so frail 'n cruel
Drunken disguise changes all the rules
Old loves they die hard
Old lies they die harder
I wish I had an angel
For one moment of love
I wish I had your angel
Your Virgin Mary undone
I'm in love with my lust
Burning angel wings to dust
I wish I had your angel tonight
Greatest thrill
Not to kill
But to have the prize of the night
Hypocrite
Wannabe friend
13th disciple who betrayed me for nothing!
Last dance, first kiss
Your touch my bliss
Beauty always comes with dark thoughts
I wish I had an angel
For one moment of love
I wish I had your angel
Your Virgin Mary undone
I'm in love with my lust
Burning angel wings to dust
I wish I had your angel tonight
Ring-a-ring-Opposes, a pocketful-Forecloses©
What advancement has been spelled out this morning?
Or any other morning for the matter with us is not yet found,
Still somehow uncolonized is the space within our heart
Overrun as it may be by so much as the duty bound
Ways radiating the loss of our own habitat that now sets us apart
From the roads we build atop the past trampled underfoot
Cobbles give way to the gobbles of hungry economic pressure
Drink your coffee quick so you may be full of beans in readiness
For the trek that gives a heck for seizing a rightful expressure
Over distinctive burials of hurt and all of life's bloodiness
Emotion rather resembles archaeology with origin unknown
It's a treasure worth having yet it's value cannot be easily told
We may hold such an artifact in our hand yet flinch in someone else's
And crack as we might it is only time that can find out before we're sold
By which time living memory has been and gone where history convulses
When we're done and dusted our image of ourselves speaks of tribal beliefs
Those narrow-minded policies handed-down from government to bleeder
Oh! and what stories shall we tell when our rich soil becomes political?
My childhood garden now a by-word for by-pass, a ruddy road's northern feeder
For no truth is harder to bear than next year's road map, ahead lies, lies, lies so hypocritical
Motions passed in my backyard by persons who'll have been and gone
Before my oats are cold...I jest, of course,
For the planners I never see live far, faraway from the likes of you or me
They have job descriptions that even google doesn't yet know, how coarse!
Yet real their decisions are, for their administrative cocoon may leave me a solitary tree
As swathes of childhood memory are churned-up why must we build over
Areas of greatest worth? leaving but a dust bowl to live out of
Only queried when the going gets tough and the tough have long gone
I speak of the Wensum valley and Norwich's soon to be northern ring of cupboard love
The atlas speaks what councils forgot to tell us...now preservation has been foregone.
by anglia24
10h30: 21/11/2008
©2008anglia24
Yeah, you’ve got your troubles.
And I’ve got mine.
So does everyone else.
Life can suck sometimes.
Funny thing is, though…
If you had the chance to trade your woes with
a mother from dafur whose children are starving
or an Afghani father whose family just got slaughtered
by the Taliban or a Bangladeshi couple whose 5-year-old
daughter is painfully dying of lead poisoning from removing
reusable parts 12 hours a day from our discarded computers...
I bet you'd keep your problems.
Maybe people who suffering in the third world would find some relief
if we bought them pro account so they could post some angst-filled
self portraits that would earn them comments praising them for their
courage and creativity.
I really do believe we could change the world with just a few pink stars.
strobist info....
a 75w compact fluorescent bulb in a 12 inch dome reflector directly in front of me, about 2.5 feet away and the camera directly under the light at arm's length — maybe 3 feet or a little less...
I've got my things packed
My favorite pillow
Got my sleeping bag
Climb out the window
All the pictures and pain
I left behind
All the freedom and fame
I've gotta find
And I wonder
How long it'll take them to notice that I'm gone
And I wonder
How far it'll take me
To run away
It don't make any sense to me
Run away
This life makes no sense to me
Run away
It don't make any sense to me
Run away
It don't make any sense to me
I was just trying to be myself
You go your way I'll meet you in hell
It's all these secrets that I shouldn't tell I've got to run away
It's hypocritical of you
Do as you say not as you do
I'll never be your perfect girl
I've got to run away
I'm too young to be
Taken seriously
But I'm too old to believe
All this hypocrisy
And I wonder
How long it'll take them to see my bed is made
And I wonder
If I was a mistake
‼Among fools there is a certain sect called hypocrites, who are constantly learning to deceive themselves and others, but more than themselves, and in reality they deceive themselves more than others.‼
“ And I say to my people’s masters: Beware, Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people, who shall take what ye would not give.
Did ye think to conquer the people or that law is stronger than life and than men’s desire to be free?
We will try it out with you, ye that have harried and held, Ye that have bullied and bribed …..tyrants, hypocrites, liars !!! ”
Patrick Pearse - The Rebel
Screenshot der Webseite globalbridge.ch/es-herrscht-krieg-nicht-nur-in-der-ukraine/
Original-Quelle unbekannt
Explored
I'm glad we can be silly together
This was the only shot like this, I've been looking through all the stuff from 2 weeks ago that hasn't been uploaded and the outtakes are hilarious. Once the 2-second timer is on, we really don't know what the others doing.
Oh, in other news. I booked my flight to see her in May.
Strobist Info: B1600 into 3ft. Octabox camera right, B800 into 32" shoot-thru camera left. Triggered via Cybersyncs.
Sometimes, people can be two-faced, hypocritical. I tend to be more than not...which is not how I want to be. I want to "live what I preach."
"...Hypocrites! For you shut the door of the Kingdom of Heaven in people’s faces. You won’t go in yourselves, and you don’t let others enter either." (Matthew 23:13)
I thought of this idea a while ago, and finally I did it. (and finally I got batteries! yay!) I pretty much just did half of my head while getting ready and shot it, then finished the other side of my head before leaving. So basically, the right side is before make-up, before doing my hair... AND this is not two pictures in one, it is actually a single photo, just with a divider down the middle and lighting difference between the sides. ;D
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! <3
God's love...is amazing.
"Amazing love, how can it be?" - Amazing Love
"Jesus, my heart is all I have to give to you, so weak and so unworthy it simply will not do...For your body that was broken, how can it be enough?" - Matthias Replaces Judas by Showbread
this pic tell u about The two sides of hypocrites :P
How well do you know your friends?!!?
model ; 2 apple :P
taken by ; Grape Cranberry
edit by ; me =)
Tre foto a Spoleto sotto il sole di gennaio:
Ombre_la città si muove o sta ferma.
Memoria corta_la città è polemica.
Liberamente_la libertà dell'arte.
Three photos of Spoleto under the January sun:
Shadows_the city moves or stands still.
Remembrance Day "short and hypocritical"
Liberamente_the freedom of art.
tuttoggi.info/sara-la-scultura-di-habicher-a-salutare-i-t...
Life in abroad, being alone, makes you wanna quit your job and go home,
dealing with homesickness, stressful work, bad people surrounds me,
like the racists, the hypocrites & the corrupt, it's everywhere & it brings me down...
I guess I need a little help of my family & friends...
this is definitely the most disgusting picture i've ever made. i think it would be great for a no smoking campaign, even if it would be a little hypocritical, since i'm a smoker
70/365
Rise Rebel Resist-Otep
www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ooXPFRh6rs
perfect little spouses
in perfect little houses
it's family fun time
let's commit a hate crime
....if i can't be loved, then I'll be hated.
I'm disconnected
I'm uninspired
I'm burning in water
I'm drowning in fire
I'm trapped inside my mind
beneath these piles of stinking life
you use this abuse to keep me conquered
you're so absurdly common
vacant faces
brainless strangers
sputtering, stuttering insect language
I'm the creature you created
everyday i grow jaded
calloused and exasperated
if I'll never be loved
then I'll be hated
I'm one of the
freaks, the fagots,
the geeks, the savages,
rogues, rebels, dissident devils,
artists, martyrs, infidels ...
do we sit still
under attack?
or do we start pushing back?
never back up
never back down
& FIGHT.
RISE
REBEL
RESIST
RISE
REBEL
MAKE A FIST
RESIST
RISE
REBEL
RESIST
RISE
REBEL
MAKE A FIST
RESIST
I'm human pollution
I covet retribution
I'm just a big mistake
a defect you can subjugate
your ridicule is just typical antics
spineless, mindless, tragic, fanatic
puritan, bigot
lunatic, hypocrite
To save my soul from disaster
self-destruction could be the answer
if I'll never be loved
then I'll be hated
I'm one of the
freaks, the fagots,
the geeks, the savages,
rogues, rebels, dissident devils,
artists, martyrs, infidels ...
do we sit still
under attack?
or do we start pushing back?
never back up
never back down
& FIGHT.
RISE
REBEL
RESIST
RISE
REBEL
MAKE A FIST
RESIST
RISE
REBEL
RESIST
RISE
REBEL
MAKE A FIST
RESIST
masochistic
so sadistic
all they see is another statistic
maybe I'm a misfit, maybe I'm different
it will never be an average existence
masochistic
so sadistic
all they see is another statistic
If I can't be loved
then I'll be hated
it's family fun time
let's commit a hate crime
WAR
WAR
RISE
REBEL
RESIST
RISE
REBEL
MAKE A FIST
RESIST
RISE
REBEL
RESIST
RISE
REBEL
MAKE A FIST
RESIST
(WE ARE)
the
freaks, the fagots,
the geeks, the savages,
rogues, rebels, dissident devils,
artists, martyrs, infidels ...
do we sit still
under attack?
or do we start pushing back?
never back up
never back down
& fight
WAR
WAR
RESIST
Pose: 5ifth Order
Armor: Tonktastic
Weapons: C-Tech Mag 10 and Semple Creations Prince Sword.
Location: Higashiosaka
! WARNING: THIS PICTURE IS EDITED !
Press "L" for a better view.
Body:
Hair: Foxy - Darling []@ kustom9 February[]
Tattoos: DAPPA - Zagan
Clothes&accessories:
Piercings : Suicidal Unborn Set 05
Harness : Spellbound Kitten harness
Necklace : Pixicat Soiree
Jacket : R2 Yuraku
Dress : *Majesty Kim dress
Gloves : ANTINATURAL Oriax Cybernetic hands []@ Cyberpunk Fair - May 2019 []
Mech Leg : AZOURY Soldier Leg []@ Cosmopolitan - March 2019 []
Background : FOXCITY LSD
Ragged, contradictory, lacking honesty, full of holes. This is my opinion of the Federal Government and it's attempt to develop a Climate, Emissions and Technology policy. The very worst of Green Wash which will leave us in the hands of the denying National Party MP's and coal carrying Liberals. These are the people that have had 8 years to develop something credible after dismantling Labour's comprehensive, market-based suite of programs. After all they debased ARENA ( Australian Renewable Energy Authority} this year to accept fossil fuel projects! They have no credibility like the Murdoch Press' breath-taking hypocritical "Green and Gold "headlines recently.
I am waiting for the rest of the world to move on and punish us for our stupidity. Apologies for the rant but...
arena.gov.au/about/strategic-priorities/
\https://www.abc.net.au/mediawatch/episodes/climate/13591490
Last night I dreamt Jesus and I walked along a beach.
"Jesus," I said, "you're black? I thought that was a Hollywood cliche. I figured you didn't have a race--you were just the essence of forgiveness or love or something."
"Nope, I'm black. My son, I'm concerned about the path of your life. You used to help the less fortunate. You used to devote yourself to causes. Now you just pursue money. What happened?"
"Jesus, I'm not sure I ever cared about those causes or if I just wanted to aggrandize myself. I mean, I care but it's secondary to making my own life better. And it's a distant second."
Jesus nodded understandingly.
"Everyone wants to improve their lot, Jesus. But materialists are at least honest about it. Given that you've built us with this self-preservation that trumps other concerns, maybe the most we can hope for is to not be a hypocrite. And to make enough money to enjoy the world you've built for us. It does take money, Jesus, no matter what anyone says."
Holding his hands behind his back as we walked, Jesus was the model of the thoughtful listener. "Mmm-hmm. There was an element of egotism to your works. But in sum you may, eventually, have been able to make some difference, even if small."
"The ends justify the means, Jesus? Is that the creator's philosophy?"
"Oh no. Look around," he said, gesturing to the sky and the water and the sand. "My father was a dadaist. And maybe," he concluded, probing a wound in his wrist absent-mindedly, "a bit of a sadist."