View allAll Photos Tagged Intellection
I'm running out of patience with the news lately. I think my advancing age is colliding with my ever decreasing attention span. My mind is still very curious, it's just become very selective. I can no longer watch any sort of news programming where the content is decided for me. I prefer aggregated news websites where I can scan the headlines, and drill down only if there's interest. Point is there seldom is any interest. Increasingly, I'm finding that the headline itself provides enough information. Lately, most of what I learn about current events comes by way of single sentence blurbs. And even then, I skim past many after reading only the first couple of words. I'm just a step away from simply looking at the pictures and not reading anything at all. I wonder sometimes how my intellect became so degraded (or as I like to think of it, repurposed). It happened so gradually I didn't really notice until it was gone. I always thought of mindfulness as a linear progression. Turns out I was wrong.
Doll encounters have a way of forcing repressed thoughts to the forefront. These grimy faces, bad haircuts, and utterly forlorn baby clothing epitomize the hopelessness of castoff toys. The children that once cherished them grew up and left the dolls behind, battered and forgotten. Objects intended to bring joy and happiness now destitute, cast with a pall of solemnity. It concerns me at times that I find such joy in capturing these tiny faces of despair. All part of the art I tell myself; just take the photos and try not to overthink it. As long as the results are respectful, the means seem justified.
Name: Harleen Frances Quinzel
Gender: Female
DOB: n/a
Status: Inactive
Meta-Human Abilities:
n/a
Non-Meta Abilities:
Dr of Psychology
High Intellect
High Agility
Acrobatic Stamina
Unarmed Combat
Notes:
As a Psychiatric Rehabilitator from Arkham Asylum, Dr Quinzel was issued a patient known as “The Joker (see file: Patient 4251940)”, and for several months, was increasingly fascinated with his methods and motives. Gaining sympathy for Patient 4251940, revoked any and all research against his criminal database, and the two broke out of the Arkham.
Apprehended due to Patient 4251940 fleeing a crime scene with out his accomplice, Harleen has begun treatment towards rehabilitation and reinstatement of her Doctorate of Psychology.
Additional Notes:
Harley Quinn was recruited to Task Force X effective (4-23-15)
Jail Sentence Revoked Upon Leave
At minus tide,
Cayucos, California
Typically Giant Kelp grows offshore in masses called kelp forests. But this (and some others nearby) are attached and growing in the intertidal. Apparently it has been known as a very similar species, Macrocystis integrifolia, which grows in the intertidal as well. Recently that species has been combined into M. pyrifera.
"It is hard for us as humans to imagine such an existence [life in the intertidal]. We cannot begin to place ourselves in such a dualistic, changing world where the basic fabric of life, the ocean, is pulled away and floods back in twice each day. It is beyond our comprehension. And this, to me, is exhilirating. It is my meaning of wild: a state our human intellect cannot quite comprehend."--Josie Iselin, The Curious World of Seaweed
Virtue most valued; Precision
For a Protector, every day is frought with weighty decisions and consequences weightier still. Avaat is a superb tactician who elects to see her world in numbers. Stoic and measured, Avaat is often taken for uncaring or cold, but those who know her well know better - Avaat cares greatly for her people and feels the impact of the choices she makes. The reigon of water is one of the safest places on Okoto due to her intellect and foresight.
---------------------------------------------
I love the 2015 water colours. How much? Much.
Avaat's theme is a gargoyle/demon. Posing her was not easy. I have a soft spot for Avaat since it was the first of the six that really came together, and convinced me to keep trying to get the others right. Also, water is my favourite bionicle element without competition.
Thanks for looking! Tomorrow I'm probably going to post a group shot and some of my thoughts.
Nothing expected, free of anticipation some things just fit together. Pictures of the view from the window turned into exposures of the light available from inside and out and then my old worn and loved Tarot box went to centre stage and took a bow. Some how some thing happened all at once and together in unison.
The Tarot cards within the box are two versions of, “The Smith–Waite,” or, “Rider–Waite–Smith,” or, “Waite–Smith Deck.” Originally and for decades Artist Pamela Colman Smith was not mentioned in the name of the deck, but the publishing company Rider was often mentioned when it was sold as the, “Rider Waite Deck,” and Rider continued to be a part of the name for the book and cards long after Rider were not publishing them. This box is for, “The, Original Rider Waite,” is no longer in production. The other deck, along with, “The Original Smith–Waite,” still in the box, is, “The Universal Waite,” that should be titled, “The Universal Smith-Waite,” and is recoloured by Mary Hanson-Roberts.
Underneath the top coat of green paint the original lettering and the image of the Major Arcana card numbered XIV that of Temperance, particularly the folds in the Angel’s robes can be seen. The 30 years age of this box is nothing in long historic roots of Tarot. It carries memories for me holds two decks with two artists showing the figures of European Tarot in a form modernised and expanded with a newly devised pictorial Minor Arcana. In 1909 the publisher Rider released, “The Key to the Tarot,” and in 1910 a revised version was retitled as, “The Pictorial Key to the Tarot,” by A.E. Waite. The name, “Rider Waite,” was used to describe the 78 cards and the books and various booklets both to accompany the cards and also sold separately. To acknowledge the artist who recast several of the Major Arcana and made 56 original versions of the Minor Arcana the publishing phenomenon with over 100 million copies is often now referred to as, “The Smith-Waite Deck.”
© PHH Sykes 2023
phhsykes@gmail.com
“Today, more than 100 million copies of the Rider-Waite-Smith Deck are in circulation in over 20 countries, making it the most popular Tarot deck ever made. As we set forth to recover lost histories and systematic erasures of women’s intellect and labor, this exhibition provides an essential piece of the puzzle.”
Ray, Sharmistha, Hyperallergic, 23 March 2019, “Reviving a Forgotten Artist of the Occult.”.
hyperallergic.com/490918/pamela-colman-smith-pratt-instit...
Hyperallergic is a forum for serious, playful, and radical thinking about art in the world today.
“Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.”
- H.G.Wells, War of the World's
Stock:
Volcano Desert Stock by leeorr-stock
Thank you.
30 Days of Perception - Day 4
Using my senses, my intellect and my emotions to perceive what is before me. Allowing myself to be lost in my first perception of what I see.
No need to ask, or even to know what this is, just enjoy the sensations it evokes!
The continuing lack of light forces me to work with a high ISO.
Triptych “Mind”
Most important in 2020 reboot
Intelligence test
Intellect AI ore Nature
Thinking
Communications
Energy
Faith
A serene photograph of the Huntington Library captures its grandeur framed by manicured gardens, classical architecture, and sunlit skies. The image shows the Beaux-Arts-style building standing proudly amidst the lush greenery of San Marino, California, with visitors strolling along its stone pathways. The contrast between the formal structure and the soft natural surroundings conveys a sense of harmony between art, knowledge, and nature—a core philosophy behind the Huntington’s founding vision.
The Huntington Library, Art Museum, and Botanical Gardens was established in 1919 by Henry E. Huntington, a railroad magnate and avid collector of rare books and art. What began as a private estate gradually transformed into one of the most important cultural and research institutions in the United States. The library houses millions of rare manuscripts, including a Gutenberg Bible and early editions of Shakespeare’s works, while the adjoining galleries contain works by Thomas Gainsborough, Mary Cassatt, and other masters.
Its significance lies not only in its preservation of historic texts and artwork but also in its role as a vibrant center for education and scholarship. With its stunning botanical gardens featuring collections from Japan, China, the desert, and beyond, the Huntington offers a multidisciplinary experience that attracts researchers, historians, and casual visitors alike. This photograph captures a timeless moment within a space that continues to bridge the past and present through beauty, intellect, and cultural legacy.
Viceroy Kollorak. Ghorax's right hand. This colossal beast is not only powerful, but possesses Toa-level intellect. Mastermind of the horde, Kollorak enforces Ghorax's will with frightening efficiency. He has three different spinners: the Loyalty spinner, which allows him to assume direct control of any Visorak, the Deprivation spinner, which shuts down all of the target's senses, and the dreaded Darkness spinner, which can trap the unlucky target in the Field of Shadows.
The first of three addendum shots for the Super Scum series. Depicted are perhaps the two most recognizable costume variations of Brainiac, one of Superman’s most dangerous enemies and a veritable comic book icon in his own right. It’s funny how I chose to include parka Brainiac in the main Super Scum series over these guys; Magneto Eradicator too. Foreshadowing for the next addendum...
Fig formulas:
Silver Age Brainiac: Brainiac head, Parasite torso and arms, S13 Snake Charmer legs
Modern Age Brainiac: Brainiac head and torso, S11 Evil mech arms, Alien Conquest hips, Lego Batman 3 game-accurate gun
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Blog Post #81
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a rare position where i find myself stunned by another's gorgeous eloquence & heartfelt intellect ; borne through a life wrought in the severity of mundane suffering & sheer ecstasy
ephemeral existence & how you cope with your ghosts
so much that it inspires me to shut my goddamn whore mouth, or should i keep gooing?
It is associated with joy, happiness, intellect, and energy.
Marcia Moses
Thanks to Lenabem Anna for texture
© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Use without permission is illegal.
Have a wonderful Sunday !
The older I get, the more I am becoming a stranger.
Fryodor Dostoevsky wrote “What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.” He was right on many levels. And as I get older, I give thanks that I have become unexpected, because of it! I found that the first part of enabling yourself to love, is to love and be kind, not just to others, but also towards yourself. And that this could be applied to the principle of the benefit of the doubt. I wanted to share how personally significant it is. How on reflection of its application, I now appreciate why it is so important.
The consideration of love, come about after a face book conversation with a young man I help raise. He was a kind, and happy young man, but he wrote something on social media that made me genuinely concerned for him. He wrote of post-traumatic stress syndrome, or PTSD and I tried to convey to him that despite what may have happened to him, or what he may have seen to cause it, that he should be kind to himself. I wrote to him saying he should be easy on himself. I told him we all loved him. We loved him because he was a kind, and respectful person. Talking to him, helped teach me, that we all make mistakes, and that sometimes despite making no mistakes at all, and despite being utterly blameless, we witness things that no person should witness. I conveyed to him that we must remember that we are not to blame, even despite at times our direct involvement. I indirectly shared a little part of myself with him, not just because I am proud of how he turned out, as he now helps me, and others. I shared it, because he assisted me, one way or another, and as a result he helped me to write this, a self-reflection that helps me with my own PTSD.
Thanks Ben.
Despite only being a little older than fifty, my mind and body, no longer match nor recognise the person I once was, and my recollections of my character become more frequently and every so often vailed. Despite the change of loss, it still cuts a little. It was not that I showed pride, it was not that my ego was hurt or reduced, it was from the personal experience of PTSD that I spoke to Ben with an adult honesty, an honesty that I always showed him even when he was a child. And it made me realize that despite the ever present or looming Spector of PTSD, that the thing that grates me, was the idea that some thought it was a weakness. Although never considering myself as weak, the considerations were foreign and made me reconsider who I was as a person.
So, who is this new person, this stranger?
I do not know, and to be honest; it is just that the more I write about myself, to myself, the more I appreciate the efforts I made. The more I write, the less, and curiously the more of a stranger I become. I reiterate, over and over to myself, about just how many failures it took to achieve anything. And it should be noted that failure is not necessarily an end; it is in general I have found, “…the start of doing something meaningful…, to paraphrase someone from somewhere in the cloud...
The more I look back, one of the things that I appreciate, was giving the benefit of the doubt. And although I fell on my face applying it on multiple occasions, I dearly valued how it helped, not just those that I gave it to, but in the end, it helped me! It helped me value the person I had become, and very fortunately it helped me value the person I was, despite all that had happened. Because of my application of it to others, I learnt to give myself the benefit of the doubt. And writing about it in my diary, makes me appreciate the principle, for what it is. It showed me just how clever it remains, and of how much worth it has as an intrinsic value or idiom. It in retrospect seemed like just a thing you do, and it should be noted that to give it, (the benefit of the doubt), and expect something back, other than to be granted the courage that it might be possibly or hopefully reciprocated, lacks integrity and self-sacrifice. It was something I was taught by my parents to do as a child, and I did it, and do it, because I was instructed that it was the right thing to do. I keep it up, because now I know, it is the just thing to do, not just a thing you do.
The application of this fundamental axion, pushed for me, to try to treat people with respect, even if I did not know them. It is not that I respect them, whoever they are, as my respect is earned, it is that I respect their right to be treated humanely and with humility. And until recently, I never fully treated myself with this respect. As a result, I now have become a stranger to myself. The more I learn, the more I find out, and the more I understand that I was not what other people thought I was. That they never really knew me. That their opinion of me was in general in error, and or self-serving of themselves.
I never forget the mistakes I made, which is part of my PTSD. But I try and be kind to myself and not dwell on them, as learning is and always will be an objective, and I now know we, as in humanity, universally make mistakes, while learning. I know that this is part of the learning process. These mistakes are written about in humanities survival manuals, printed, and etched in text to help us. Reading of others, not just personally observing them, and having firsthand experience, reinforced that this scenario played out repeatedly in its truism. It helped not just with forgiving myself for my mistakes or failings, but it aided in forgiving others for theirs. Due to this maxim, and its novel application to myself, I now look at this foreign person that I have never seen before. That person was me, and ironically, always was. I look at myself in a new light. It is not that I had an epiphany about who I was, I just never gave myself any credit, as not many others did. It was a trait written in one of my high school reports.
Despite them saying things like you are not bright enough; or you do not have the capacity, I just kept on going, like Vinsent from the movie Gattica. My mother gently pushed me not to listen to the people that said things like you cannot do that, or you will not succeed if you go down that rout. I tried never to listen to the nay sayers, because that is what my mother taught me. Although at times, I did. She was so calm and repetitive in saying it, that I should just keep on going. And as my capacity to take hits lessons, and my body runs out of time, I am losing some of the innocence I once had. The naive ignorance, and faith, in my capacity to weather personal injury slowly diminishes. I am not becoming a grumpy old man, sinical or anything like that. But, as my ability to disregard the opinion of those that thought, or think, of my applications of intellect, where acts of stupidity, I now become a little inelastic. My perseverance for those that thought it, and felt no shame in publicly pronouncing it, gets less, and because of their ridicule, I have become more.
In Australia, right or wrong we cut down tall poppies, and I have been cut down many times. This process seems highly ironic, as I never stood tall for all but a second in my youth. And boy did I get cut down by those that disagreed with me. Recently it seemed to me that they were just flogging a dead horse, trying to bleed the very last drop of effort out, all the while offering no just reward. But unlike Boxer from George Orwell’s novel Animal farm, I am not at the knackery yet, nor have I been sold for more whiskey for the pigs. It has not gone quite that far, although it has been tried by those that sort to capitalise on my work. And although my study and work put me in many perilous positions, some of which had left me socially prostrate and biochemically brutalised, it was the innocence and naivety, with which I went about my work, just like Boxer, that I am happy about. An innocence or loyalty that was, and is, of a worth that I personally think is immeasurable. It was not just a loyalty to people, but to values and things I had been taught.
Standing on principles that where and are sometimes profoundly challenged by my peers is and was in fact a strength. Most do not know the value or strength of virtue. And the revaluation, of its consideration helped me establish who I am, and what I went through. It helped reduce the PTSD, and now I am someone foreign to me. Like a thought of the third person, I have become a welcome stranger to myself. It has caused a process of revaluation, and in that process, I have become someone new, someone alien, someone of value. And just like the welcome swallows that turned up every year at my old house, they as a metaphor for an idea where in contrast, and unlike PTSD. They, like a conscious dream, fly in from nowhere, light up my day, and move on. And just like the birds, who took with them the mosquitos that filled the night air, my considerations take with them, the mosquitoes of my mind. They were such a beautiful little thing to see, and always welcome. For a quite mind is a gift.
This new person was created with two forces, out of something old. Like water and wind, to use a cliché, they helped produce me, with a heavy dose of self-fortitude. They had both worn me out, and worn me down, and I become a considerate tolerant man. Both were my parents. My mother, said and encouraged me to try anything, but she always reminded me, of the demanding work required to achieve said task. In contrast, my father cut down every endeavour I had thought of trying. Where my mother had taught me how to give myself the benefit of the doubt, my father gave me the capacity and discipline to do the work required. Initially he did not believe that I had the capacity to do the miles, to use a cycling term. To do the miles is to suffer for extended periods of time, to work, to churn, or grind away on the pedals as you train. Doing the miles makes your response to the task automatic, disciplined, and acutely effective. The longer you grind, or the more miles you do, the more Zen like you become at a task. Ironically as they both aged, my mother’s enthusiasm for me waned, and my father’s enthusiasm increased.
I do not know, if my father saw in the end, the miles being done, but, and it should be noted that both my mother and my father may have been a bit out, in their accuracy department of their analysis of me early on. Despite this, they both taught me resilience. The resilience, to have the not so common capacity to give the benefit of the doubt. One initially vocally optimistic, and ever encouraging, the other absent in lack of optimism, with an ever-present silence. His silence came from seeing me fall, seeing people laugh at his son, and finding the visual or metaphor more horrid to watch, than it ever was. I do not think he ever worked out, that where I might have lacked the ability to do the miles, it was my persistence in getting back up after a fall, which was my talent or discipline. Due to this, both my mother and father’s appraisals were wrong.
What caused it, this factual error? And to introduce Einstein in my parent’s defence, the situation was relative; it was not just their lack of faith in that I would just keep going after a fall, they just never could clearly see, where I was moving to, or where I was in time. I was on one train, and they were on the other. Like ships in the night passing each other, we never really stopped to talk, I never really discussed my work with them, I never told them about what I did. For when I had, they never believed me, for they could not comprehend my achievements. This social isolation is part of the new person I am, and as I discuss me, and what, or who I am, I come to the realisation of my exploitation by others. With an absence of family to discuss the details of my effort, and the sacrifices I had made, as they would never understand it, I started to write a journal, or a diary, about my work, and put into perspective or context, that journey.
Part of that journey due to my lowly status at work, was I never had a boss who could intimidate me. I never had a boss that could threaten me with a lower position, because I was in general already or always in it, the lowest of jobs. And thus, I become a type of wondering ronin. I am not sure, if my use of the word ronin is the old, or the updated version, but it most certainly is an Australian or western fusion of the two. This wondering, this lack of direction, and the experience of suffering and struggle, become an instructor of joy. It was an indicator, or a sign that I had earned my happiness, and not expected others to pay for it. This work or suffering had educated me, that I had earned the right to smile. I had served not just myself, in my endeavours of my pursuit of personal happiness, but that I had also served others on their quest or personal journey or pursuit of it… It was through my personal suffering, for that is what my work was, that I had lowered my collateral damage to those that surrounded me. I had reduced my infliction on their personal pursuits of happiness. As a result, I gave the benefit of the doubt to my pain, not knowing if it would ever bear fruit. I learnt of the discomfort of others, through my experience. I discovered that I should be considerate, because one way or another, we all suffer, and to intentionally cause another to suffer more is inhumane. I learned what that tribulation may entail, how personal it is, and how much of a double-edged sword it can be, as it is both, friend, and foe. And through the sympathy of other individuals suffering, and because of it, I learnt to give myself the benefit of the doubt, and I concluded that I had earned a decent living.
Studying others and their sacrifice, not just my own, and being respectful to both, helps alleviate the constant reminder of my broken body. The aches, and the pains, that I presume, if I make it to eighty, will all be quite weathering. But for now, they help keep me honest. I can only hope as I become more crippled, that I take more from Yoda than quasi modo. It will help put into context, the sacrifice of others, and just how lucky I have been, in comparison to some. It puts into perspective, that to give the benefit of the doubt, is to sacrifice little, and to give the benefit of the doubt, is to give up nothing. It is staunch, hard, and stoic, with one purpose, to give, and the first person you need to give it to is yourself. It has been both philosophically and religiously said, that suffering, and trial are a gift, a gift reserved for those that can manage it, but sometimes I wonder. At times, I look on at people, and question about their journey, and how much they, which is most of us, endure. And after reading a little of the Philosophers, I concur, luck, and hard work, are no strangers to each other, and when combined, are like magic. A magic so powerful, I no longer recognise myself, or care about my crippled body, nor the PTSD from the events that crippled it.
I was not cursed by my suffering, I was blessed to help not just myself, but others.
BFTGM Entry
This ex-toa is a master of lightning! He and his lightning gauntlet, intellect, and magnified strength are deadly to any Toa, villager, or islander! He claims his power has been magnified by an encounter with the mask of Ultimate Power! Exzalion must be defeated at all costs!
Yes, all the stickers are made by TLG. :)
A candid street photo of a boy and a girl who play chess in the street. The black knight may capture the white queen, and the boy may win but the time will come he as a knight will kneel before her as a beautiful queen. May the happiness be with them. Black and white version.
Love, love mmm...
I told y'all
We would be the band to play it.
My ghetto butterfly flew away from me.
I wait patiently, by windows and doorsteps.
Play, make believe, as my tears, poor chest,
won't succeed to breathe, if not to hear of you.
Surely there has never been a shade so blue.
A stank attitude, so not mad at you.
Not a magnitude to encompass the latitude
of my love for you.
No space and time compatible.
What do I have to do? What do I have to do?
Uh..my friends say I got it bad for you.
I do. But there's nothing in this world I'd rather do,
but you.
I want to make love to your existence,
drenched in colors of your energy,
then masturbate to the memories.
I wanna lose myself inside yourself...
Until you find me. Confine me,
to the freedom of your prison.
Exist in the same space, same time.
Combine until your thoughts slow grind with mine.[3x]
My, I wanna drink the sweat of your intellect,
reflect, and watch your light passion walk my neck.
Caress the sights of your presence with no question,
undress to the nakedness of love, pure love.
I want to make love to my soulmate... my soulmate...
make love to my soulmate...my soulmate...
make love to my soulmate, uh shit...
I wonder, how does it feel to make love to your soulmate.
Kind of like writing poetry till climax,
till the point and place where space and time match.
Can we cross the line, perhaps tell me would you like that.
Now would you like that, tell me would you like that,
would you like that, tell me would you like that,
would you like that, tell me?
I'm gonna ask you again now, tell me..
Would you like that, tell me would you like that,
now would you like that, tell me would you like that,
would you like that, tell me..
I wanna love you more than madly.
Wrap these legs around your words,
until your speech is straddled deep, gladly.
Swim the currents of your vibrations,
be separate in one
with the same meditation..
Uh the same meditation..
Uh you know what..
This, right here is poetry..
Enjoy.. Ualy, play that saxophone right now!
If love..
If love had a sound
this would be that sound.
And we,
well we,
We would be the band to play it.
"Poetry, How Does It Feel" by Akua Naru
In the twilight, the sky poured itself into a palette of whispered hues — violet and crimson, tangerine and pearl — as if the universe had exhaled all its colors in a sigh of resignation. The ocean mirrored this celestial canvas, a restless pupil absorbing the wisdom of an infinite teacher. Each ripple seemed to question the boundaries of being, curious and hesitant, like a child's hand reaching out to touch the face of a dream.
Here, the world was no longer a place of answers. The horizon bled uncertainty, a line drawn by an unseen hand that forgot the concept of edges. The clouds sprawled in streaks of mauve and gold, tendrils of thought from an intellect far too ancient to be hurried, yet too young to understand itself. The waves murmured secrets to the wind — secrets too elusive to grasp, yet too profound to ignore. They curled over rocks and sand, breaking into a gentle chaos, as though nature itself had briefly forgotten how to complete its sentences.
In the silent stillness, this scene held no promise of permanence, only an invitation to witness the fleeting. The sky’s aching expanse was a brushstroke of the eternal, and the water below was nothing but a vessel for reflections — a keeper of ephemeral flames. The moment teetered between oblivion and discovery, balanced delicately, impossibly, on the brink of time's vast and ever-receding shore.
For a breath, all of existence seemed caught in contemplation, as if even the universe were musing over its own creation, wondering how such beauty could rise from the convergence of chance and infinity. And then, just as softly, the sun dipped beyond sight, leaving only the lingering glow of wonder, and the endless mystery of night yet to unfold.
* * *
Beneath the lingering hues and the whispered secrets of light, there exists a bridge between the fleeting and the eternal. To step across it, to witness more moments where color and time converge in a delicate dance, wander further into the world of the artist who captured this Symphony of Passing Light.
Let your eyes explore the unseen, let your mind drift into reverie — discover www.coronaviking.com and follow the traces of twilight, the stories etched in waves, and the silent poetry of horizons yet to be touched.
Last night my wife says, "Let's get up really early and go on a hike tomorrow" OK, we don't do much hiking between June and October, but maybe it'd be OK if we got going before sunrise. Happy wife, happy life after all. 4:30AM alarm and on the trail by 5:30AM. But it was already 91°F (33°C) when we started. A mile and a quarter into this hike it starts going up hill. At which point Jasper slows way down. Sun's coming up. Getting even warmer. "How about some ice water and then we'll just go a little ways", we tell him. A drink and a few paces further he just stopped, refusing to budge. "OK Jasper. You want to go back to the car?" Bingo! About face and a brisk pace back to the car and air conditioned comfort. Jasper once again demonstrating his superior intellect over his humans. I did manage to snap one as the sun rose over Phoenix.
Recommended by Seraphina Juliesse
Titan: A person or thing of very great strength, intellect, or importance.
Female dominance (femdom) refers to a BDSM scene or relationship in which a female is the dominant partner, or top partner. A dominant female may have a number of different names, including dominatrix, mistress or madame
Taken @ KINkY EVENT / MAN CAVE EVENT / Noir / Senses
Representation of Joseph Smith, founder of the Mormon Church, as a sphinx located in Gilgal Garden.
Gilgal Sculpture Garden is a small public city park, located at 749 East 500 South in Salt Lake City, Utah, United States. The park, which is filled with unusual symbolic statuary associated with Mormonism, notably to the Sphinx with Joseph Smith's head, was a labor of love designed and created by LDS businessman Thomas Battersby Child, Jr. (1888-1963) in his spare time. The park contains 12 original sculptures and over 70 stones engraved with scriptures, poems and literary texts. Gilgal Sculpture Garden is the only designated "visionary art environment" in the state of Utah.
The name "Gilgal" is sometimes translated to mean "circle of standing stones," an appropriate appellation for a sculpture garden. Gilgal is also the name of a city and a valley in The Book of Mormon, a sacred scripture in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. -- Courtesy Wikipedia
The Sphinx is the best-known sculpture in Gilgal Garden. It is also, Child wrote “the basis of thought or inspiration for all that is built around it.” The contrast of the unhewn stones arranged to suggest a crouching animal with the finely carved face of LDS Church founder Joseph Smith makes this a remarkable piece. Child carefully selected the huge quartzite stones to form the Sphinx’s body and hired sculptor Maurice Brooks to create the face using an oxyacetylene torch.
The Sphinx represents Child’s belief that the answers to life’s great questions cannot be discovered with the intellect, but only through faith. The sphinx is an ancient symbol of riddles and mystery. Joseph Smith’s face symbolizes Child’s conviction that the LDS Priesthood reveals to mankind the answers to life’s mysteries.
To see more of this quirky but fascinating sculpture garden check out my album here: www.flickr.com/photos/19779889@N00/albums/721777203075209...
from the water lands.
he was taught blue magic from a very young age, with his skill of magic he was then granted the use of a staff of O, he then set out on a journey to stop evil.
>sorcerer
>good
>attack- 90/100
>strength- 60/100
>intellect- 95/100
>abilities- can use master spells, fly, invisibility, control water, control weather. (and a ton of magic)
OC by me
the Gandalf of LBFW
Ludvig Holberg, Baron of Holberg (1684 – 1754) was a writer, essayist, philosopher, historian and playwright born in Bergen, Norway, during the time of the Dano-Norwegian double monarchy.
Holberg is considered the founder of modern Danish and Norwegian literature. Holberg's works about natural and common law were widely read by many Danish law students over two hundred years, from 1736 to 1936.
Holberg believed in people's inner divine light of reason, and to him it was important that the first goal of education was to teach students to use their senses and intellect, instead of uselessly memorising school books. This shows he was a man of the Age of Enlightenment.
Wikipedia
I've been waiting for the part to these for a while, so it's nice to finally post them :P
Left to right:
Polar
Name: Evie Winters
Allegiance: Villain
Power(s): Cryokinesis, Gadgetry
Skills: Pro athlete-level ice skating, Above-average intellect.
Origin: Evie Winters discovered her powers on her 12th birthday party, when she accidentally froze her family's backyard pool solid, trapping herself and a few of her friends in a sub-zero prison. When she finally thawed out, she combined her love of tinkering with her almost genius-level intelligence to create a device to help her better control her powers. Without her chestplate and dampening gloves, Evie's powers are unpredictable at best and a frigid nightmare at worst. She's more villainous than she is heroic, and has a mild criminal record, but she's more of a prankster than anything else.
Lynx
Name: Zoe Wilder
Allegiance: Hero
Power(s): Zoe possesses a form of supernaturally good fortune- Guns fired at her will suddenly misfire, and punches will miss her ever-so-slightly. Her luck isn't foolproof, however- It's does nothing against truly impossible odds.
Skills: Gymnastics
Origin: Zoe Wilder had many close scrapes as a child, ranging from something as innocent as happening to fall on a soft patch of moss when she tripped on a hike, to skiing under an overhang right as an avalanche struck. Eventually, as she grew older, she realized that she was not simply lucky, as she originally thought, but possessed a supernatural good fortune. Upon realizing this, Zoe started fighting crime in New Blok City, using her "gift" to help those not as lucky as herself.
(Sorry for the glare btw)
If you need to ask the price -- don't even go in.
When their advertising refers to you as "one" you know your in the wrong place.
See what I mean:
"Assouline, the fashion crowd’s favorite book publisher."
Beyond “beautiful books” Assouline is invested in the promotion of culture. It has created the “first brand of luxury culture” by opening boutiques where one can discover a world of good taste, excitement and intellect, a place where “culture can be acquired” within a luxurious environment. One can purchase complete book collections as well as objects that belong in contemporary libraries such as perfumed candles and “cabinets of curiosities.”
----------------------------------
Candid street shot, London, England.
Yet across the gulf of space, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded our planet with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us. Many thanks Wikipedia
In the opulent heart of the city, where cobblestone streets echoed with the whispers of history, there existed a gentleman's club draped in a reputation as enigmatic as the twilight. Its members, a tapestry of the city's elite, indulged in debates under chandeliers that swung gently like pendulums, keeping time with the conversations beneath.
Among the revered ranks were two remarkable women, Lady Abigail and Lady Beatrice—collectively known as the Clockwork Sibyls. Their presence was a rare phenomenon in the male-dominated refuge, where they were not merely guests but celebrated oracles of innovation and intellect.
(Part 2 flic.kr/p/2pFCXJY)
Image created in DALL-E
Story co-created by Grace and ChatGPT
The Italian Bridge is the bridge across the Griboedov Canal in Saint Petersburg, Russia. It is a single span, steel, pedestrian bridge next to Italian street (hence the name). The bridge's length is 19.66 meters, the width is 3 meters.
Classicism, in the arts, refers generally to a high regard for a classical period, classical antiquity in the Western tradition, as setting standards for taste which the classicists seek to emulate. In its purest form, classicism is an aesthetic attitude dependent on principles based in the culture, art and literature of ancient Greece and Rome, with the emphasis on form, simplicity, proportion, clarity of structure, perfection, restrained emotion, as well as explicit appeal to the intellect. The art of classicism typically seeks to be formal and restrained: of the Discobolus Sir Kenneth Clark observed, "if we object to his restraint and compression we are simply objecting to the classicism of classic art.
Tight Strung Rules.
Subtraindo almas limitando capacidades oportunidades de individuação diferenças categorias coisas ocultas significados exemplos formas imateriais,
manières constituées principes composés quiddités simples doctrines universelles du philosophe inductions au-delà des questions accomplies intellects découvrant des raisons sciences suffisantes arguments principes métaphoriques révélations adversaires,
ystyried ysbrydoliaeth darogan damweiniau cynigiadau dysgeidiaeth gweithredu hanfod egwyddorion llifo naturiol,
kommentatorer skelner åndelige konklusioner effektive liv belysninger betingelser nødvendige tid arrogationer revolutioner irrationelle sind forklarer resultater,
Mortibus ægrotationum redirecting legibus servatis auctoritates pro tutore scholarium scripta senatus consultis pretium responsa aureum themata textus sacri maturuerunt,,
熟考進歩性知識ファンタズムは理解しやすい印象を引き出す抽象化された不自然さ決定的な形優秀な光進行力を引く.
Steve.D.Hammond.
"May Ganesha bring you joy, love, and peace."
('Ganesha' by Four Horsemen / 'Figura Obscura')
Diorama by RK
It is always the whole human person that interacts with the world, but when the interaction aims at knowing, we speak of the intellect. When desire stands in the foreground, we speak of the will. The intellect sifts out what is true; the will reaches out for what is good. But there is a third dimension to reality: beauty. Our whole being resonates with what is beautiful, like a crystal lampshade that reverberates every time you hit a C-sharp on the piano. Where this feeling of resonance (or, in other situations, dissonance) marks our interaction with the world, we speak of the emotions. How joyfully the emotions reverberate with the beauty of our mystical experience! The more they respond, the more we will celebrate that experience. We may remember the day and the hour and celebrate it year after year. We may go back to the garden bench where the singing of that thrush swept us off our feet. We may never hear the bird again, but a ritual has been established, a kind of pilgrimage has been undertaken to a personal holy place. Ritual, too, is an element of every religion. And every ritual in the world celebrates in one form or another belonging—pointing toward that ultimate belonging we experience in moments of mystical awareness.
-The way of silence : engaging the sacred in daily life / Brother David Steindl-Rast
and thumps about things which the intellect scorns :-)
Mark Twain
tulips, wral gardens Raleigh, north carolina
...this laminated calendar by marking
every day by voice and touch
of vegetation outdoor, existing sum
of herbs & other flora-fauna (etc)
compiling general concert in tired
mind by ephemeral senses, sooner
vibes around & within entire Earth,
meridians and horizontal exhalation
of fresh Ozone of atmospheric-dome
and Oceanic waves is best of Songs
created by Almighty to enhancing
Souls & Minds by consonance &
prosody of sleeping clouds instead
of triviality of words...
The silence of palette's ubiquity
in its entirety as entourage since
bravery of Caves & Stone Age
without doubts resists to Wind
as dialect of Rain & Frost each
season celebrating change, &
days to nights... just listen to the
Water's flow composing melody
of April's streams at Spring
of Lunar disc persistent, slow
& invisible to eye rotation of
magnetic & gravitation spin
among abyssal minuses of ( -273*F)
of daily Cosmic cold.. Alas.
Without question mind adopts all
agile crowds at streets & galleries, &
parks & shows, all squeaks of paroxysmal
brakes, & race through serpentine of roads,
& rails, platforms & parapets, & subway's
tracks - all fuss invoked summation being
young, a-kaleidoscopic swirl of streaks,
& glares - sublimed reality of Flemish Art
extended seamless to grotesque of Cluster's
buzz: a shiny carnival of vanished ghosts,
all seasons masquerade in midst of East plus
all existed Sides, lets us to say in some
abbreviated city, town, or even villages
abundant far around, and near-by as
urban Clusters, whilst & without pinch
of enigmatic apex of Venetian's ado &
shabby charm along submerged canals,
gondolas, waters, such blurred by scenic
lights, all those years of shuttered dreams.
...presumably I was by glittery of dreams
attached to nights of rainy streets & still
consumed by neon lights, transforming
mind into extension of ideal as reason
to believe in purposely applied utility of
vain attempts by definition, & this
ideal as stimuli attracts & nurtures mind
before & after failed attempts, & sadness,
memory, as tiny whisper of localized all
ups-&-downs of urban Life by iris opened
ajar, as if myself seduced & felled in love
with B&W essays - pan-urbanism of real
life, scenarios as short-as-flash reflecting
Lights to tingling focus of celluloid films.
Through jump off timer. All left behind.
...its left bunch silver prints 16x20, B&W
indeed of candid images, as dream,
abstract versification of essays that
never was completed, or performed,
or formalized, or any print was published,
which is a bravery to sacrifice long Life
for images all dusted and forgotten.
Alas. All sixty years simply gone.
...& now through imagined timer
of thousands of frames presenting
cinematic-stop effect, by virtue of defect -
all indisputable, because too late to dream,
a challenge having back revitalize all
quasi-faucets of expressed by ephemeral
images of prints reflecting sh...t-boxes
chariots without horse, as taxi-passengers
in cheapen-chick a-rendezvous of their
motors all blooming like F...nch who...e,
these carousels of Clustery spasmodic nights,
these nights without sleep, or rest, psychotic
euphoria without caffeine, without
dopio-less-sugar, re-loading film in
Leica-em-3 plus Elmar, without enigma
of candid foto-walks alike before in Soviet
epoch and decorations of scenic hype
(a-La H. Cart..r-Br..son's) of surrealistic style,
essays evaporated that never was achieved
today, or - even iota of subtle dreams
in studio of Master Rick Scav...lo,
or even honesty of Legend showing to a
Cluster nue and fashion flux, with his three
lenses in old-fashion coat, and Contaxes,
o! those Contaxes, did painting a homage
to magazine of Vo..ue, & his artistic lovely
Wife - a symbol gravitated to his Art.
... habitual concept of urbanism - abundance
of traffic lights to fuel intellect & minds
on stops in designated Cluster's, its brilliant
aspect of slowing speed of rainy-drops,
duet with drizzle, & snow-flakes of any
measure of blessed precipitation: petals',
showers, reality of Spring, or - utter Rain,
or - Pranayama as personal effect
of endless search for second's split,
by tension of annoying traffic's light,
by speed of pounding hearty-beats in foggy
resolution of sculpture figurine along alleys
in Cluster's Park, again without single frame
intrinsically resulted in lights of night...
___________________________________________________________________________
[...] The sensory world of manifolds is the area of analysis by the intellect; we can also say that the mind has invented the world of sense. If we think we understand the world, it just means to understand that we, as far as it relates to our intellectual thinking. But the intellect is not up to that life as we live it internally, we always feel something in us that which the mind is unable to pay the full peace and the other looks for its fulfillment.
This is why our lives so rich in contradictions and conflicts. But most of us take no notice of them and only when this fact is somehow aware, they start with this situation examination seriously.
If we start in this way, to search for the truth, we finally get to the spiritual world, or rather, the spiritual world breaks into the world of sense and reason.
Once that happens, it changes the whole order of things, the logical is not logical, rationality loses its meaning, because now is the real not-real and the truth, the non-truth. More specifically, the water no longer flows in the river, the flowers are no longer red and the pastures are not green.
It is the most surprising event that can take place in human consciousness. This invasion of the spiritual world into the world of the senses and the mind leads to the overthrow of every form of experience that has prevailed there.[...]
Die Sinnenwelt der Mannigfaltigkeiten ist der Bereich der Analysen durch den Verstand; wir können auch sagen, der Verstand hat die Sinnenwelt erdacht. Wenn wir glauben, die Welt zu verstehen, heißt es nur, dass wir verstehen, soweit es unser verstandesmäßiges Denken betrifft. Aber der Verstand reicht nicht bis zu jenem Leben, wie wir es innerlich leben, wir fühlen immer etwas in uns, dem der Verstand nicht den vollen Frieden zu schenken vermag und das anderweitig seine Erfüllung sucht.
Deshalb ist unser Leben so reich an Widersprüchen und Konflikten. Doch die meisten von uns nehmen das nicht zur Kenntnis und nur wenn ihnen diese Tatsache irgendwie bewusst wird, beginnen sie sich mit dieser Situation ernsthaft auseinanderzusetzten.
Wenn wir auf diese Weise anfangen, nach der Wahrheit zu suchen, gelangen wir schließlich zur geistigen Welt oder richtiger: die geistige Welt bricht in die Welt der Sinne und des Verstandes ein.
Sobald dies geschieht, ändert sich die ganze Ordnung der Dinge; das Logische ist nicht mehr logisch, die Rationalität verliert ihre Bedeutung, denn nun ist das Reale das Nicht-Reale und das Wahre das Nicht-Wahre. Genauer gesagt, das Wasser fließt nicht mehr im Fluss, die Blumen sind nicht mehr rot und die Weiden sind nicht mehr grün.
Es ist das überraschendste Ereignis, das im menschlichen Bewusstsein stattfinden kann. Dieser Einbruch der geistigen Welt in die Welt der Sinne und des Verstandes führt zum Umsturz jeder Erfahrungsform, die dort vorgeherrscht hat.
|| Source: D.T.Suzuki "Wesen und Sinn des Buddhismus" Hua-Yen-Philosophie || Wikipedia: D. T. Suzuki || Tranlated by Mr. Google ||
It's strange, he runs with the ones he can't keep up with
It's so strange, slows down, so desperate to stop him
Meet him in the middle, they both run from the one who hunts them.
They drop to the forest floor, frozen,
They drop to the forest floor, frozen
He loves him, but he loves his life alone as well
But does he know the road or the reasons why
Well, if he leaves him
He'd be losing the chance to stay alive
Well, the candle burns bright
Then the candle dies
Burning from the middle
Like a candle
after Stevie Nicks, Moonlight
(sorry, Stevie)