View allAll Photos Tagged INSCRUTABLE
Die Sphinx von Giovanni Stanetti im Bild ist das unverkennbare Merkmal des Standorts am Rande des Schlossparks beim Oberen Belvedere. Gemeinsam mit einer zweiten Sphinx auf der anderen Seite des barocken Schlossparks flankieren sie das Schloss Belvedere. Von hier geht der Blick über den Schlosspark, das Untere Belvedere, und über Wien von der Kuppel der Karlskirche links, den Turm des Stephansdoms in der Mitte bis hin zur Kuppel der Salesianerkirche am rechten Rand (die ich hier leider nicht am Bild habe). Der beschriebene Blick wird Canaletto-Blick genannt, weil er sich schon zu Zeiten des Malers Bernardo Belotto, genannt Canaletto, in der Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts bot und bis heute im wesentlichen unverändert besteht. Vielleicht hatte ja die undurchschaubare Sphinx Einfluß darauf, dass das Wiener Hochhauskonzept auf den Canaletto-Blick Rücksicht nahm ?
The sphinx created by Giovanni Stanetti in the picture is the unmistakable feature of the site at the edge of the palace park near the Upper Belvedere. Together with a second sphinx on the other side of the Baroque palace park, they flank Belvedere Palace. From here the view goes across the palace park, the Lower Belvedere, and over Vienna from the dome of the St. Charles' Church on the left, the steeple of St. Stephen's Cathedral in the middle to the dome of the Salesian Church on the right edge (which I unfortunately don't have on the picture here). The view described is called the Canaletto View because it was already there in the time of the painter Bernardo Belotto, called Canaletto, in the middle of the 18th century and has remained essentially unchanged until today. Perhaps the inscrutable Sphinx had an influence on the fact that the Viennese high-rise concept took the Canaletto View into consideration ?
Blue enigma of ages, ringed with immutable rock,
Fiery cradle of mountains whose barren ridged mock
Man's puny and ceaseless endeavor, his straining and pigmy strife;
Let him look on the patience of ages and know the end of life.
Mighty forge of the Titans where mountains were welded and made,
Glaciers have cooled your seething, hemlocks reared their shade,
And now you mirror your cradle, your mountain-making done,
And now your inscrutable depths reflect the dwelling of the sun.
Now men stand safe on your lava brink with awe intaken breath
Lost in the contemplation of a mighty mountains' death.~Russell Andrews, park ranger
Crater Lake National Park
The big fellow did not want to go back to his little apartment. Meet him at Tysons Corner Mall in VA. You can see the big smile on his face as he rests on the wall.
The Chow Chow, an all-purpose dog of ancient China, presents the picture of a muscular, deep-chested aristocrat with an air of inscrutable timelessness. Dignified, serious-minded, and aloof, the Chow Chow is a breed of unique delights. Chows are powerful, compactly built dogs standing as high as 20 inches at the shoulder. Their distinctive traits include a lion's-mane ruff around the head and shoulders; a blue-black tongue; deep-set almond eyes that add to a scowling, snobbish expression; and a stiff-legged gait. Chows can have rough or smooth coats of red, black, blue, cinnamon, or cream. Owners say Chows are the cleanest of dogs: They housebreak easily, have little doggy odor, and are known to be as fastidious as cats. Well-socialized Chows are never fierce or intractable, but always refined and dignified. They are aloof with strangers and eternally loyal to loved ones. Serene and adaptable, with no special exercise needs, Chows happily take to city life.
Electrifying experience of structure boldly defying structure, sanity and insanity colliding in sentimental unison.
//These words suggested by the inscrutable links of friendship serve to add Janos Kepes’s personal verbal articulation to Richard Wohlfart’s photographs, a single if relevant item of an infinite set of possible resonances.//
Mysterious and inscrutable the roads that lead our photos to Explore, a pleasant showcase for photography enthusiasts. There is talk of an algorithm that chooses them, but it's very bad, because it has always ignored the beautiful photos of some of my friends on Flickr, I don't understand, why ?
Misteriose ed imperscrutabili le strade che portano le nostre foto in Explore, una gradita vetrina per gli appassionati di fotografia. Si parla di un algoritmo che le sceglie, ma è molto cattivo, perchè ignora da sempre le foto bellissime di alcuni miei amici su Flickr. Non capisco, perchè ?
1. Storie di confine, 2. Nella terra dei giganti, 3. Sillabario alpino, 4. On a Beautiful Day, 5. Il Buono, il Brutto, il Cattivo, 6. Melancholy gray, 7. Nella buona e nella cattiva sorte, 8. Vivid summer,
9. Through the trees, 10. Back to the River, 11. White ecstasy, 12. Lucky day, 13. Bianca Neve ed il Rosso Rame, 14. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year ..., 15. By the River, 16. Cinematic,
17. Fulgore, 18. Seasonal ecstasy, 19. Therapeutic yellow, 20. High mileage, 21. Menta e ginestre / Mint and broom, 22. My Heaven, 23. Green Anarchy, 24. A momentary lapse of Eden [Explore Jun, 25],
25. Rio Ravella, 26. Hikers have perfect distancing, 27. Assalto poetico, 28. Via Crucis, 29. Una cartolina da Chamois (AO), 30. L' Angelone, 31. Felice e gentile, 32. La traccia bianca,
33. Grattatina lunare, 34. Di là dal ponte, 35. Cerchi nell'acqua, 36. Voli di linea e non, 37. Il fascino discreto della solitudine, 38. Trote di settembre, 39. Profumo di erba, 40. On a lazy afternoon,
41. Gli amici dei miei amici, sono anche miei amici, 42. Close encounter, 43. Baciato dal sole, 44. La pazienza dell'uva, 45. Suspended, 46. sulle amate sponde, 47. Esplorando, 48. Vicoli di pietra,
49. Closed, 50. My white friday, 51. Certi giorni ..., 52. The bridge to Heaven, 53. Rossetto bianco, 54. Gran Turismo, 55. meglio tardi che mai, 56. Nuvole fuggenti,
57. Colori gustosi, 58. The quiet creek, 59. il faggio ombroso, 60. Rintocchi d'autunno, 61. heart of stone, 62. Ispirata, 63. la realtà aumentata, 64. Il gesto,
65. Campo volo, 66. Rock balancing, 67. Turista per caso, 68. Inspired by Monet, 69. Quel che rimane del giorno, 70. Scivoli e toboga, 71. L'inverno simulato, 72. L'incanto nel silenzio
........groan! We were out in the garden and our neighours' cats, Shaggy and Fuggly, were sitting on our BBQ box so we gave them a game wiggly a stick along the hedge. Fuggly who had played the most, was taking a backseat here and letting Shaggy have a turn. As you can see she really got stuck in.
Bob Dylan concert was very good. He is a very strange man for sure. He hit many a bum note on the piano, he made some very strange movements on stage and he should never have sung "That Old Black Magic"....EVER! But there were some wonderful and mesmerising moments. I think this review from the Telegraph sums up my thoughts on it.
Nothing planned for the weekend - just a little R&R
Happy Furry Friday everyone
Wishing you a peaceful weekend
quote ~. E. M. Forster
a skeltalmess texture was applied
thanks for all the comments i get . going away camping next to the ocean on Saltspring island tomorrow
Carnivore.
Cerchi pietosi alieni terribili che abbaiano cani che sfidano le banche l'argento grava sui sospetti vecchi rami malvagi prestabiliti arti loquaci testarde,
svake design verdige formuer skjulte sannheter rare idoler støvete ruter hengende rettigheter hemmelige avganger mørke smale dører,
choses hideuses corps non identifiables cris inhumains agitant le chaos interprétations des mortels royaumes fantasmes agonies pouvoirs nuits qui battent,
teithio anymwybodol profusions incalculable stormydd inscrutable tablau cywrain ofnau pendro ofnau disessant delweddau llechu,
отводящие глаза однообразные языки бред силы громадные точки ужасные контуры законы еды разные небеса вздымающиеся сундуки,
忌まわしい頭を手招きホラープレート魅惑的な月が魂を粉砕する香りのよいそよ風運命のシーン呪われたリーダーが大渦を震わせて退廃的な海の深さ香ばしいそよ風の運命のシーンは、リーダーが大渦を震わせて退廃的な海の深さを呪った.
Steve.D.Hammond.
2024-09-08, Day 2
The Kluane Parks Canada patrol cabin sits nestled in the lee of a rock outcropping that, when paired with its twin on the other side of the creek, forms a gateway to the Burwash Glacier and mountain passes that wait not far upstream, Kluane National Park, Yukon.
A distance of 16.5 miles (27 km) separates the Alaska Canada Highway from the patrol cabin, which is a decent day’s walk for a fit Ranger who knows the route. The cabin contains a wood stove, a two-burner gas cooker, two bunks, a work area, and a nearby outhouse with a spectacular view down the valley. The stove is powered by two massive propane tanks propped and lashed to the outside wall, and I can only imagine a helicopter is required to deliver them when full. The cabin was locked up for the season, and outside on the porch a defunct can of bear spray appeared to have been punctured in multiple places by large-diameter canines. A spartan accommodation, but able to meet all the basic needs. The siting of the cabin is obviously a studied choice to avoid the worst of the cold, katabatic winds that plunge from the ice-clad higher elevations visible just beyond the rocky cliffs.
We set up our tent on a lovely bench some little distance behind me and perched above the rock-blasted creekbed. Once the shelter was assembled and the sleeping bags unfurled, we turned toward the cabin to cook dinner and noticed a Red Fox (Vulpes vulpes) hunting ground squirrels in the rocks visible toward the right of the frame. The fox caught a large squirrel and then retreated to a small cave-like crevice in the rocks and disappeared from view. Several minutes later it emerged again and began pursuing another ground squirrel up and down amongst the rocks.
Following our repast of pasta with rehydrated tomato sauce leather from my garden, parmigiana, and freeze-dried sausage, we concluded that we had not yet walked enough for the day, and we ambled up the stream bed toward the Burwash Glacier. Just out of view around the corner, it was evident that a Grizzly Bear had annihilated a colony of ground squirrels, excavating many square meters of earth and flinging large rocks and significant volumes of soil some distance in its haste to capture its quarry. No squirrels appeared to remain.
Looking up the valley, the view was blocked by a thick wedge of hard looking rock that is perhaps 50 feet thick and 30 feet high. The stream has cut a narrow crevice through this massive, perplexing chockstone, and I was able to touch both sides of the rock walls with my arms extended on either side as we hopped carefully upstream from rock to rock. A moonscape unfolded on the other side of the chockstone with more jumbled rocks than seems reasonable to exist in all of creation and scant plant life to be found. High up on the steep, unstable, and eroding slopes, we could see where a bear had walked and then paused in two places to dig furiously into the loose substrate.
We returned slowly to camp, picking a careful route amongst the stones and many channels of the braided creek. Returning to the cabin and our cooking area, we sipped herbal tea and ate biscuits as we watched the light finally begin to fade close to 9:30p. Unexpectedly, a small falcon-like bird swooped down along the outcrop above the cabin and attempted to grab the hat from my friend’s head. Failing to remove the object of its pursuit from the dome of its rightful owner, the baffling bird flew quickly across the creek and disappeared into the gathering darkness. This place seems to burst with inscrutable messages.
this photo seemed to play well with a variety of filters... see links to them in the comments below
2025-07-12_213700
Ariel's roots show when she gets an inscrutable oriental/Asian look. Bombay? I know you're in there somewhere :-)
but i can't vouch for the rest of her :-) Oscar Levant.
j c raulston arboretum, ncsu, raleigh, north carolina
Dining Car Orient-Express (Paris-Istanbul), 1911
The Railway Museum
Utrecht, September 2024
Model: Kim
All of my photographs are under copyright ©. None of these photographs may be reproduced and/or used in any way without my permission.
© NGimages / Nico Geerlings Photography
Maya, the Husky, has eyes that tell you a lot is going on inside her brain, even when she's apparently dozing.
Cerro Azul, Panamá. Most of the sloths that I saw during my time in Panama were dark inscrutable balls high in the tree canopies. This particular sloth was the exception! It was out in the open by the side of the road, giving us some good looks while it observed us in return. Thanks for looking and any comments or feedback.
I, as usual, took no notes while we went round the museum. Too interested in seeing all there was to see in the time available... Coming across this picture, I was intrigued by his face and couldn't quite determine whether it was benign or malicious - just inscrutable perhaps?
Asymptotic rail, symptomatic devices of vice and hindrance effectively countered by a brave and resolute look from a frail being.
//These words suggested by the inscrutable links of friendship serve to add Janos Kepes’s personal verbal articulation to Richard Wohlfart’s photographs, a single if relevant item of an infinite set of possible resonances.//
I couldn't help but feel this fellow was contemplating the pathos of life. It had been raining, but the sun had come out, and there were birds everywhere -- frantically calling, defending territory, and gathering material for nest building. This fellow was not calling, but just watching the whole scene with that passive inscrutable expression.
Panasonic Leica DG Vario-Elmar 100-400mm 4.0-6.3, JPG unedited from camera
242/36
and so the story comes full circle! i hope y'all have enjoyed watching it unfold even a fraction as much as i have enjoyed making it.
the story was inspired by myths of will-o-the-wisps, as well as the whole Germanic tradition of humans being spirited away by forest beings with inscrutable intentions. i liked the idea of thinking of this process as another cycle in nature, an inevitability--hence the cyclical nature of the series.
i'm going to be releasing a before/after of one of the photos in this series on my facebook page, so stay tuned! EDIT: here is the before/after.
A one off appearance in our garden by this cat so far. He was kept under observation, but not challenged, by a couple of the local cats who like to spend time in our quite garden.
Nesika Beach Oregon.
Lagrandstudios
Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved
Hurry Up Please Its Time
What is death, I ask.
What is life, you ask.
I give them both my buttocks,
my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.
They are neat as a wallet,
opening and closing on their coins,
the quarters, the nickels,
straight into the crapper.
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and moon the executioner
as well as paste raisins on my breasts?
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and show my little cunny to Tom
and Albert? They wee-wee funny.
I wee-wee like a squaw.
I have ink but no pen, still
I dream that I can piss in God's eye.
I dream I'm a boy with a zipper.
It's so practical, la de dah.
The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,
is being a little girl in the first place.
Not all the books of the world will change that.
I have swallowed an orange, being woman.
You have swallowed a ruler, being man.
Yet waiting to die we are the same thing.
Jehovah pleasures himself with his axe
before we are both overthrown.
Skeezix, you are me.
La de dah.
You grow a beard but our drool is identical.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
Today is November 14th, 1972.
I live in Weston, Mass.
, Middlesex County,
U.
S.
A.
, and it rains steadily
in the pond like white puppy eyes.
The pond is waiting for its skin.
the pond is waiting for its leather.
The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.
It begins:
Interrogator:
What can you say of your last seven days?
Anne:
They were tired.
Interrogator:
One day is enough to perfect a man.
Anne:
I watered and fed the plant.
*
My undertaker waits for me.
he is probably twenty-three now,
learning his trade.
He'll stitch up the gren,
he'll fasten the bones down
lest they fly away.
I am flying today.
I am not tired today.
I am a motor.
I am cramming in the sugar.
I am running up the hallways.
I am squeezing out the milk.
I am dissecting the dictionary.
I am God, la de dah.
Peanut butter is the American food.
We all eat it, being patriotic.
Ms.
Dog is out fighting the dollars,
rolling in a field of bucks.
You've got it made if you take the wafer,
take some wine,
take some bucks,
the green papery song of the office.
What a jello she could make with it,
the fives, the tens, the twenties,
all in a goo to feed the baby.
Andrew Jackson as an hors d'oeuvre,
la de dah.
I wish I were the U.
S.
Mint,
turning it all out,
turtle green
and monk black.
Who's that at the podium
in black and white,
blurting into the mike?
Ms.
Dog.
Is she spilling her guts?
You bet.
Otherwise they cough.
.
.
The day is slipping away, why am I
out here, what do they want?
I am sorrowful in November.
.
.
(no they don't want that,
they want bee stings).
Toot, toot, tootsy don't cry.
Toot, toot, tootsy good-bye.
If you don't get a letter then
you'll know I'm in jail.
.
.
Remember that, Skeezix,
our first song?
Who's thinking those things?
Ms.
Dog! She's out fighting the dollars.
Milk is the American drink.
Oh queens of sorrows,
oh water lady,
place me in your cup
and pull over the clouds
so no one can see.
She don't want no dollars.
She done want a mama.
The white of the white.
Anne says:
This is the rainy season.
I am sorrowful in November.
The kettle is whistling.
I must butter the toast.
And give it jam too.
My kitchen is a heart.
I must feed it oxygen once in a while
and mother the mother.
*
Say the woman is forty-four.
Say she is five seven-and-a-half.
Say her hair is stick color.
Say her eyes are chameleon.
Would you put her in a sack and bury her,
suck her down into the dumb dirt?
Some would.
If not, time will.
Ms.
Dog, how much time you got left?
Ms.
Dog, when you gonna feel that cold nose?
You better get straight with the Maker
cuz it's coming, it's a coming!
The cup of coffee is growing and growing
and they're gonna stick your little doll's head
into it and your lungs a gonna get paid
and your clothes a gonna melt.
Hear that, Ms.
Dog!
You of the songs,
you of the classroom,
you of the pocketa-pocketa,
you hungry mother,
you spleen baby!
Them angels gonna be cut down like wheat.
Them songs gonna be sliced with a razor.
Them kitchens gonna get a boulder in the belly.
Them phones gonna be torn out at the root.
There's power in the Lord, baby,
and he's gonna turn off the moon.
He's gonna nail you up in a closet
and there'll be no more Atlantic,
no more dreams, no more seeds.
One noon as you walk out to the mailbox
He'll snatch you up --
a wopman beside the road like a red mitten.
There's a sack over my head.
I can't see.
I'm blind.
The sea collapses.
The sun is a bone.
Hi-ho the derry-o,
we all fall down.
If I were a fisherman I could comprehend.
They fish right through the door
and pull eyes from the fire.
They rock upon the daybreak
and amputate the waters.
They are beating the sea,
they are hurting it,
delving down into the inscrutable salt.
*
When mother left the room
and left me in the big black
and sent away my kitty
to be fried in the camps
and took away my blanket
to wash the me out of it
I lay in the soiled cold and prayed.
It was a little jail in which
I was never slapped with kisses.
I was the engine that couldn't.
Cold wigs blew on the trees outside
and car lights flew like roosters
on the ceiling.
Cradle, you are a grave place.
Interrogator:
What color is the devil?
Anne:
Black and blue.
Interrogator:
What goes up the chimney?
Anne:
Fat Lazarus in his red suit.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
Ms.
Dog prefers to sunbathe nude.
Let the indifferent sky look on.
So what!
Let Mrs.
Sewal pull the curtain back,
from her second story.
So what!
Let United Parcel Service see my parcel.
La de dah.
Sun, you hammer of yellow,
you hat on fire,
you honeysuckle mama,
pour your blonde on me!
Let me laugh for an entire hour
at your supreme being, your Cadillac stuff,
because I've come a long way
from Brussels sprouts.
I've come a long way to peel off my clothes
and lay me down in the grass.
Once only my palms showed.
Once I hung around in my woolly tank suit,
drying my hair in those little meatball curls.
Now I am clothed in gold air with
one dozen halos glistening on my skin.
I am a fortunate lady.
I've gotten out of my pouch
and my teeth are glad
and my heart, that witness,
beats well at the thought.
Oh body, be glad.
You are good goods.
*
Middle-class lady,
you make me smile.
You dig a hole
and come out with a sunburn.
If someone hands you a glass of water
you start constructing a sailboat.
If someone hands you a candy wrapper,
you take it to the book binder.
Pocketa-pocketa.
Once upon a time Ms.
Dog was sixty-six.
She had white hair and wrinkles deep as splinters.
her portrait was nailed up like Christ
and she said of it:
That's when I was forty-two,
down in Rockport with a hat on for the sun,
and Barbara drew a line drawing.
We were, at that moment, drinking vodka
and ginger beer and there was a chill in the air,
although it was July, and she gave me her sweater
to bundle up in.
The next summer Skeezix tied
strings in that hat when we were fishing in Maine.
(It had gone into the lake twice.
)
Of such moments is happiness made.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
Once upon a time we were all born,
popped out like jelly rolls
forgetting our fishdom,
the pleasuring seas,
the country of comfort,
spanked into the oxygens of death,
Good morning life, we say when we wake,
hail mary coffee toast
and we Americans take juice,
a liquid sun going down.
Good morning life.
To wake up is to be born.
To brush your teeth is to be alive.
To make a bowel movement is also desireable.
La de dah,
it's all routine.
Often there are wars
yet the shops keep open
and sausages are still fried.
People rub someone.
People copulate
entering each other's blood,
tying each other's tendons in knots,
transplanting their lives into the bed.
It doesn't matter if there are wars,
the business of life continues
unless you're the one that gets it.
Mama, they say, as their intestines
leak out.
Even without wars
life is dangerous.
Boats spring leaks.
Cigarettes explode.
The snow could be radioactive.
Cancer could ooze out of the radio.
Who knows?
Ms.
Dog stands on the shore
and the sea keeps rocking in
and she wants to talk to God.
Interrogator:
Why talk to God?
Anne:
It's better than playing bridge.
*
Learning to talk is a complex business.
My daughter's first word was utta,
meaning button.
Before there are words
do you dream?
In utero
do you dream?
Who taught you to suck?
And how come?
You don't need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?
The cry of a gull is beautiful
and the cry of a crow is ugly
but what I want to know
is whether they mean the same thing.
Somewhere a man sits with indigestion
and he doesn't care.
A woman is buying bracelets
and earrings and she doesn't care.
La de dah.
Forgive us, Father, for we know not.
There are stars and faces.
There is ketchup and guitars.
There is the hand of a small child
when you're crossing the street.
There is the old man's last words:
More light! More light!
Ms.
Dog wouldn't give them her buttocks.
She wouldn't moon at them.
Just at the killers of the dream.
The bus boys of the soul.
Or at death
who wants to make her a mummy.
And you too!
Wants to stuf her in a cold shoe
and then amputate the foot.
And you too!
La de dah.
What's the point of fighting the dollars
when all you need is a warm bed?
When the dog barks you let him in.
All we need is someone to let us in.
And one other thing:
to consider the lilies in the field.
Of course earth is a stranger, we pull at its
arms and still it won't speak.
The sea is worse.
It comes in, falling to its knees
but we can't translate the language.
It is only known that they are here to worship,
to worship the terror of the rain,
the mud and all its people,
the body itself,
working like a city,
the night and its slow blood
the autumn sky, mary blue.
but more than that,
to worship the question itself,
though the buildings burn
and the big people topple over in a faint.
Bring a flashlight, Ms.
Dog,
and look in every corner of the brain
and ask and ask and ask
until the kingdom,
however queer,
will come.
by Anne Sexton
The dawn’s chill scoured the face of Double Cone, a spectral hand clawing through the Southern Alps. Above Lake Alta’s emerald expanse, the mountain loomed—its flanks streaked with bleached remnants of snow, remnants that clung like old regrets. The wind, raw and bitter, swept down the slopes, threading itself through rock and scree, folding silence into a wild, keening song.
Clouds hung low, thick and bruised, their edges torn and frayed by relentless gusts. They shifted with a restless grace, momentarily splintering apart to release brief shards of sunlight. These fugitive glimmers lit the lake below—water so clear it seemed the bones of the earth had been left exposed. The surface rippled with uneasy color: deep green folding into steely blue, reflections shattered and remade, a liquid mirror forever unsettled.
The air itself felt ancient, weighted with something unspoken. Here, where stone meets sky, there was a sense of myth tangled in the wind’s teeth, a shiver of some old and distant grief. You could almost hear it—the faint echo of weary feet trudging through Tolkien’s dim-lit imagination. Dimrill Dale lay just beyond the veil, its shadow seeping into the crags, the specter of the Fellowship emerging, burdened and breathless. Their journey felt etched into the very stones—a passage written in exhaustion, in courage, in the cold, endless wind.
The lake held a frozen clarity, a clarity that seemed to scorn warmth. Beneath its wavering surface, shards of stone piled like forgotten memories, blurred yet sharp, brittle yet enduring. It was as if time had shattered here, its fragments preserved in perfect, unyielding stillness.
When light broke through—sharp and sudden—it struck the mountains like flint against steel, igniting a flare of impossible brilliance. For a moment, the land glimmered with an intensity that bordered on revelation, a brightness that almost hurt. And then it was gone, the clouds closing once more, the wind surging back to reclaim its territory.
In this place, breath was thin, vision was keen, and reality stretched itself taut. It whispered of thresholds, of boundaries unseen but felt—a world that teetered between memory and myth, where every gust of wind and ripple of water seemed to ask: What, after all, are you doing here?
And the mountains, inscrutable and unmoved, waited for an answer.
------------------------------------
To explore more of these captured moments and woven words, visit the artist and writer at their sanctuary of creation: www.coronaviking.com
Beneath a shifting ceiling of ashen clouds, the Valley of Trolls unfurled in solemn grandeur, a wilderness carved by time’s relentless hand. Ocean Peak rose above the far horizon, its serrated heights stark against the gloom, like an ancient banner frayed by millennia of winds. At its feet, Lake Harris lay brooding, its dark waters restless and inscrutable, stirred by winds that whispered of distant seas and forgotten storms.
In the foreground, a serpentine stream spilled forth from the hidden cradle of Lake Wilson, threading its way through a chaotic tumble of stone. Its waters shimmered, not merely clear but luminous, catching elusive glints of light that seemed to flicker and fade as if stolen from the stars. Pools gathered in quiet hollows, their surfaces dappled with ripples that moved like silver veins through emerald and cobalt. The stream hummed with life, its song subtle yet persistent, like a half-remembered melody from a world long past.
Clinging to the fractured rocks, alpine daisies stretched defiantly, their white blooms trembling as faint sunbeams broke through the clouds, only to vanish again as swiftly as they had come. These hardy flowers, so fragile in appearance yet stubborn in their survival, seemed to hold council with the mosses and lichens that crept across the crags in slow, deliberate conquest. Each blade of grass, each cluster of growth, seemed to hold its place not by chance, but by some secret decree of the land itself.
The valley walls were a mosaic of raw geology, where layers of stone thrust forward, tilted and scarred as though shaped by a craftsman’s fury. Deep fissures cleaved their surfaces, shadows pooling within them like ink spilled from some unseen hand. This was no land of soft beauty or gentle welcomes—it was a place that commanded respect, its silence carrying the weight of long-buried stories.
Farther still, Lake Harris mirrored the sky’s shifting moods in its dark expanse, its waters holding a curious stillness at odds with the restless air around it. The peak above seemed almost watchful, its sharp contours suggesting not just a mountain, but an ancient presence—a witness to events that even the loremasters of Rivendell might struggle to recall.
Here, one might imagine a weary Frodo pausing, his hand brushing the cool stones, as Sam’s voice broke through the quiet with some small encouragement. Or perhaps Aragorn, his gaze far away, scanning the rugged horizon as though searching for echoes of a time before his own. It was a land where footsteps felt heavier, where the air seemed dense with unspoken warnings, and yet where beauty—wild and unbroken—shone like a pale flame in the gathering dusk.
The Valley of Trolls held no welcome for travelers, nor did it turn them away. It simply was, a fragment of Middle-earth unbent by the passing ages, its mysteries untouched by the dominion of Men. There was a stillness here, but not a peace. Beneath the green and stone, beneath the streams and shadows, there was a waiting, a presence that seemed to hum just below the edge of perception. Not malevolent, not benevolent—simply there, as if the valley itself watched and remembered long after all others had forgotten.
"And now, Dr. Banner, you can see that I've lured you to your doom! No mind can match the inscrutable mind of THE LEADER!"
"Right, so, am I missing it? What's the doom factor here? Nice sunset, pretty glass stones."
"HA! And you call yourself a scientist!!"
"Well, I am a scientist. I have degrees, and a big green alter-ego to prove it. I just don't see what danger you've lured me into here."
"If I have to explain it, then it loses all it's captivating charm!"
"Are you talking about a death-trap or a joke?"
"Look, just admit you have been defeated by the Leader and let's be done with it!! Is that clear??"
"... ... I think I need new villains."
__________________________
A year of the shows and performers of the Bijou Planks Theater.
MiniMates
Bruce Banner
The Leader
A somewhat inscrutable sticker, in Reading, Berkshire.
Shot with with a Nikon D7000 and a Tamron 70-300mm F4/5.6 DI LD (Nikon AFS) lens, and processed in GIMP and Photoscape.
Ink Drawing
Short Fiction by Li Xin
About Me
When I was young, I always had that feeling that, whenever a teacher pretentiously taught something new and inscrutable, like Newton’s Law, once I understood what they were talking about, I would at once have that feeling that I already knew it. Then I came to realize that all I could know was what I had already known, what I could not know was what I did not and could not know. But when I knew what I knew that I did now know, it’s just something that I knew what I did not know that I had already known. Just like all the little guys who discovered truth also found troubles for themselves, I was unpopular at school at all for this discovery of mine, and each day passed like a torment. Of course, I did not say that I was somebody and smarter than Newton because I already knew Newton’s Law without relying on him. I just want to say that I belonged to a group of people, a particular group where prophets belonged, like Muhammad. However, all the teachers did not like my spreading out my discovery. Back then, I was a little guy in my elementary school, but I neither started school earlier than others nor skipped any grade. Once in a physics exam, I got surprisingly bad results. My physics teacher asked me to come to his office. He went through what I said and how I behaved at school, quite thoroughly, and then pointed out the mistakes I made in the test and asked me: How should these be explained? I fell into silence. Yes, what could I say? Was not it obvious that this was the result of education!
Yes, I was a little guy back then, but back then I had not told my harsh physics teacher the ancient Greek mythology about Hercules. According to Homer, the old Linos was also a harsh teacher. One day he was punishing young Hercules, the child grabbed his harp and smashed it onto his teacher's head. Yes, the teacher died immediately. And when young Hercules was sent to court, Judge Damantis pardoned him. As a result, a new law was enacted, that was, those who caused death out of self-defense were not guilty.
I think if I told this story that day, yes, my physics teacher would be frighted and trembled. If you keep encountering this kind of situation, Adorno's paradox, that's great. That indicates that there are other things hidden in your expression. You no longer just tittle-tattle and gossip around, your expression has a certain depth. This is often the result of a kind of thinking, but also a kind of wisdom. It makes you a person understanding what values are. But the price is that when you have the ability to be understood, you will inevitably have the pain of not being understood. Unless you are not settled at being a little guy forever. One day you would become a big man.
In addition, I want to point out that if you have a habit of thinking and digging truth in everything, then you will consistently find out that many things in our daily life are very absurd and irrational, then you would become an unwelcome person. This will also bring you pain.
Who is Adorno? Adorno is actually a fictitious figure about ourselves. Throughout our lives, we keep feeding our body, and at the same time we keep making up a Self. That is “I” in mythology. We want it perfect, powerful, and fun. Our physical body brings us biological pleasure and pain; our spiritual self also brings us pleasure and pain. Don't be afraid of pain, and don't indulge in pleasure. Don't completely give up the spirit of your own fictitious self, the mythical world in us. Does our busy daily life really make sense?
In short, I like my poem about Adorno. But what I want to tell you is there is something weird happening after I posted it online. It drew in a mysterious woman
Set up the tripod, set the timer, jog down the path a few paces, get that inscrutable look in your eyes, move onto next photo.
This image is from early Skyrim, a video game, I wanted to post it because it's one of my favorites and here's a good to place to store the image.
Beneath New Zealand's sky fractured by shifting battalions of cloud, the Southern Alps surged upward like the ribs of some ancient, slumbering titan. Their ridges gleamed with the raw brilliance of snow that had never known the weight of a human step, and their faces bore the inscrutable calm of stone shaped by fire and time. They did not merely stand—they loomed, timeless and unyielding, as though holding the horizon itself aloft.
Below, the Hopkins River coiled through the valley, its surface shimmering like molten glass in the rare shafts of sunlight that broke through the restless sky. The river whispered its secrets to the land it carved, secrets of beginnings and endings, of the patient violence that shapes the world. Its waters seemed to pulse with a life of their own, an echo of the storms that birthed them high in the peaks, now quiet but never subdued.
The air here was taut with contradiction, both alive and still. The faint tang of rain, sharp and metallic, mingled with the earthy sweetness of early summer. Shadows swept over the land in restless currents, their forms fleeting as thoughts. One moment the mountains were cloaked in shadow, their surfaces brooding and unknowable, and the next they flashed into sudden brilliance, as though lit from within by some fiery conviction.
The valley below was no passive stage. It bore the marks of its own restless story, etched into its slopes and curves by water and wind. Yet even in its rawness, it offered a strange kind of solace, a cradle for the fleeting and the fragile: the first green shoots of summer trembling in the wind, the unseen roots clutching the soil. This was no battle between wildness and peace, but a merging of opposites—ferocity tempered by grace.
Here, amid this vast choreography of sky and stone, river and cloud, the self felt unmoored. Not diminished, but stripped of pretense. The immensity of it all was not an affront but an invitation: to see without grasping, to be without weighing. The mountains did not judge. The river did not ask. They simply were, their presence as unarguable as a heartbeat.
And in this place, under the restless sky, one could not help but feel the pulse of something greater, older. Something that spoke not of meaning, but of the astonishing privilege of being. The Southern Alps did not demand admiration; they offered perspective, a glimpse of the infinite through the lens of the fleeting. And it was enough.
* * *
And if these words and this image stir something within you—a longing to witness the untamed beauty of the world or to pause and reflect on its quiet majesty—I invite you to explore more of my work. Through my lens and pen, I strive to honor the landscapes that shape us and the stories they tell. Visit my website - www.coronaviking.com, where images and words meet, to journey further into the wild corners of our shared earth. You’ll find more moments like this, and perhaps, a spark of inspiration for your own path.