View allAll Photos Tagged Mistake
No hay errores, ni coincidencias.
Todo evento es una bendicion que se nos otorga, para aprender de ello.
There are no mistakes, no coincidences.
All events are blessings given to us to learn from.
I kneeled and try to had an empty photo of this scene. I was in hurry, since people were jogging and walking with their dogs, so empty moments didn't occur. Being in hurry, I messed up with my camera. But... somehow I took this... by accident. I was taking a colour photo. I don't do sepias. I must have shooted it accidently while changing settings. And I like it.
The Wheel of Fortune, or Rota Fortunae, is a concept in medieval and ancient philosophy referring to the capricious nature of Fate. The wheel belongs to the goddess Fortuna, who spins it at random, changing the positions of those on the wheel - some suffer great misfortune, others gain windfalls. Fortune appears on all paintings as a woman, sometimes blindfolded, "puppeteering" a wheel.Origins[edit]
The origin of the word is from the "wheel of fortune" - the zodiac, referring to the Celestial spheres of which the 8th holds the stars, and the 9th is where the signs of the zodiac are placed. The concept was first invented in Babylon and later developed by the ancient Greeks. The concept somewhat resembles the Bhavacakra, or Wheel of Becoming, depicted throughout Ancient Indian art and literature, except that the earliest conceptions in the Roman and Greek world involve not a two-dimensional wheel but a three-dimensional sphere, a metaphor for the world. It was widely used in the Ptolemaic perception of the universe as the zodiac being a wheel with its "signs" constantly turning throughout the year and having effect on the world's fate (or fortune). Ptolemaic model of the spheres for Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn with epicycle, eccentric deferent and equant point. Georg von Peuerbach, Theoricae novae planetarum, 1474.
Vettius Valens, a second century BC astronomer and astrologer, wrote. There are many wheels, most moving from west to east, but some move from east to west.
Seven wheels, each hold one heavenly object, the first holds the moon... Then the eighth wheel holds all the stars that we see... And the ninth wheel, the wheel of fortunes, moves from east to west, and includes each of the twelve signs of fortune, the twelve signs of the zodiac. Each wheel is inside the other, like an onion's peel sits inside another peel, and there is no empty space between them.[this quote needs a citation] In the same century, the Roman tragedian Pacuvius wrote: Fortunam insanam esse et caecam et brutam perhibent philosophical, Saxoque instare in globoso praedicant volubili: Id quo saxum inpulerit fors, eo cadere Fortunam autumant. Caecam ob eam rem esse iterant, quia nihil cernat, quo sese adplicet; Insanam autem esse aiunt, quia atrox, incerta instabilisque sit; Brutam, quia dignum atque indignum nequeat internoscere. Philosophers say that Fortune is insane and blind and stupid, and they teach that she stands on a rolling, spherical rock: they affirm that, wherever chance pushes that rock, Fortuna falls in that direction. They repeat that she is blind for this reason: that she does not see where she's heading; they say she's insane, because she is cruel, flaky and unstable; stupid, because she can't distinguish between the worthy and the unworthy.
—Pacuvius, Scaenicae Romanorum Poesis Fragmenta. Vol. 1, ed. O. Ribbeck, 1897
The idea of the rolling ball of fortune became a literary topos and was used frequently in declamation. In fact, the Rota Fortunae became a prime example of a trite topos or meme for Tacitus, who mentions its rhetorical overuse in the Dialogus de oratoribus. Fortuna eventually became Christianized: the Roman philosopher Boethius (d. 524) was a major source for the medieval view of the Wheel, writing about it in his Consolatio Philosophiae - "I know how Fortune is ever most friendly and alluring to those whom she strives to deceive, until she overwhelms them with grief beyond bearing, by deserting them when least expected. … Are you trying to stay the force of her turning wheel? Ah! dull-witted mortal, if Fortune begin to stay still, she is no longer Fortune."
The Wheel was widely used as an allegory in medieval literature and art to aid religious instruction. Though classically Fortune's Wheel could be favourable and disadvantageous, medieval writers preferred to concentrate on the tragic aspect, dwelling on downfall of the mighty - serving to remind people of the temporality of earthly things. In the morality play Everyman (c. 1495), for instance, Death comes unexpectedly to claim the protagonist. Fortune's Wheel has spun Everyman low, and Good Deeds, which he previously neglected, are needed to secure his passage to heaven. Geoffrey Chaucer used the concept of the tragic Wheel of Fortune a great deal. It forms the basis for the Monk's Tale, which recounts stories of the great brought low throughout history, including Lucifer, Adam, Samson, Hercules, Nebuchadnezzar, Belshazzar, Nero, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar and, in the following passage, Peter I of Cyprus. O noble Peter, Cyprus' lord and king,
Which Alexander won by mastery, To many a heathen ruin did'st thou bring; For this thy lords had so much jealousy,
That, for no crime save thy high chivalry, All in thy bed they slew thee on a morrow. And thus does Fortune's wheel turn treacherously And out of happiness bring men to sorrow.
~ Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, The Monk's Fortune's Wheel often turns up in medieval art, from manuscripts to the great Rose windows in many medieval cathedrals, which are based on the Wheel. Characteristically, it has four shelves, or stages of life, with four human figures, usually labeled on the left regnabo (I shall reign), on the top regno (I reign) and is usually crowned, descending on the right regnavi (I have reigned) and the lowly figure on the bottom is marked sum sine regno (I am without a kingdom). Dante employed the Wheel in the Inferno and a "Wheel of Fortune" trump-card appeared in the Tarot deck (circa 1440, Italy). The wheel of fortune from the Burana Codex; The figures are labelled "Regno, Regnavi, Sum sine regno, Regnabo": I reign, I reigned, My reign is finished, I shall reign
In the medieval and renaissance period, a popular genre of writing was "Mirrors for Princes", which set out advice for the ruling classes on how to wield power (the most famous being The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli). Such political treatises could use the concept of the Wheel of Fortune as an instructive guide to their readers. John Lydgate's Fall of Princes, written for his patron Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester is a noteworthy example. Many Arthurian romances of the era also use the concept of the Wheel in this manner, often placing the Nine Worthies on it at various points....fortune is so variant, and the wheel so moveable, there nis none constant abiding, and that may be proved by many old chronicles, of noble Hector, and Troilus, and Alisander, the mighty conqueror, and many mo other; when they were most in their royalty, they alighted lowest. ~ Lancelot in Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur, Chapter XVII.[3] Like the Mirrors for Princes, this could be used to convey advice to readers. For instance, in most romances, Arthur's greatest military achievement - the conquest of the Roman Empire - is placed late on in the overall story. However in Malory's work the Roman conquest and high point of King Arthur's reign is established very early on. Thus, everything that follows is something of a decline. Arthur, Lancelot and the other Knights of the Round Table are meant to be the paragons of chivalry, yet in Malory's telling of the story they are doomed to failure. In medieval thinking, only God was perfect, and even a great figure like King Arthur had to be brought low. For the noble reader of the tale in the Middle Ages, this moral could serve as a warning, but also as something to aspire to. Malory could be using the concept of Fortune's Wheel to imply that if even the greatest of chivalric knights made mistakes, then a normal fifteenth-century noble didn't have to be a paragon of virtue in order to be a good knight. The Wheel of Fortune motif appears significantly in the Carmina Burana (or Burana Codex), albeit with a postclassical phonetic spelling of the genitive form Fortunae. Excerpts from two of the collection's better known poems, "Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi (Fortune, Empress of the World)" and "Fortune Plango Vulnera (I Bemoan the Wounds of Fortune)," read: Sors immanis et inanis, rota tu volubilis, status malus,
vana salus semper dissolubilis, obumbrata et velata michi quoque niteris; nunc per ludum dorsum nudum fero tui sceleris. Fortune rota volvitur; descendo minoratus; alter in altum tollitur; nimis exaltatus rex sedet in vertice caveat ruinam! nam sub axe legimus Hecubam reginam.Fate - monstrous and empty, you whirling wheel, status is bad,
well-being is vain always may melt away, shadowy
and veiled you plague me too; now through the game
bare backed I bear your villainy. The wheel of Fortune turns;
I go down, demeaned; another is carried to the height;
far too high up sits the king at the summit - let him beware ruin! for under the axis we read: Queen Hecuba. Later usage:
Fortune and her Wheel have remained an enduring image throughout history. Fortune's wheel can also be found in Thomas More's Utopia. Wheel of fortune in Sebastian Brant`s Narrenschiff, woodcut by A. Dürer William Shakespeare in Hamlet wrote of the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" and, of fortune personified, to "break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel." And in Henry V, Act 3 Scene VI[4] are the lines: Bardolph, a soldier who is loyal and stout-hearted and full of valour, has, by a cruel trick of fate and a turn of silly Fortune's wildly spinning wheel, that blind goddess who stands upon an ever-rolling stone—
Fluellen: Now, now, Ensign Pistol. Fortune is depicted as blind, with a scarf over her eyes, to signify that she is blind. And she is depicted with a wheel to signify—this is the point—that she is turning and inconstant, and all about change and variation. And her foot, see, is planted on a spherical stone that rolls and rolls and rolls. Shakespeare also references this Wheel in King Lear.[5] The Earl of Kent, who was once held dear by the King, has been banished, only to return in disguise. This disguised character is placed in the stocks for an overnight and laments this turn of events at the end of Act II, Scene 2:Fortune, good night, smile once more; turn thy wheel! In Act IV, scene vii, King Lear also contrasts his misery on the "wheel of fire" to Cordelia's "soul in bliss". Shakespeare also made reference to this in "Macbeth" throughout the whole play. Macbeth starts off halfway up the wheel when a Thane, but moves higher and higher until he becomes king, but falls right down again towards the end as his wife dies, and he in turn dies.
In Anthony Trollope's novel The Way We Live Now, the character Lady Carbury writes a novel entitled "The Wheel of Fortune" about a heroine who suffers great financial hardships.
Selections from the Carmina Burana, including the two poems quoted above, were set to new music by twentieth-century classical composer Carl Orff, whose well-known "O Fortuna" is based on the poem Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi.
Jerry Garcia recorded a song entitled "The Wheel" (co-written with Robert Hunter and Bill Kreutzmann) for his 1972 solo album Garcia, and performed the song regularly with the Grateful Dead from 1976 onward. The song "Wheel in the Sky" by Journey from their 1978 release Infinity also touches on the concept through the lyrics "Wheel in the sky keeps on turnin' / I don't know where I'll be tomorrow". The song "Throw Your Hatred Down" by Neil Young on his 1995 album Mirror Ball, recorded with Pearl Jam, has the verse "The wheel of fortune / Keeps on rollin' down". The term has found its way into modern popular culture through the Wheel of Fortune game show, where contestants win or lose money determined by the random spin of a wheel. Also, the video game series character Kain (Legacy of Kain) used the wheel of fate. Fortuna does occasionally turn up in modern literature, although these days she has become more or less synonymous with Lady Luck. Her Wheel is less widely used as a symbol, and has been replaced largely by a reputation for fickleness. She is often associated with gamblers, and dice could also be said to have replaced the Wheel as the primary metaphor for uncertain fortune. The Hudsucker Proxy, a film by the Coen Brothers, also uses the Rota Fortunae concept and in the TV series Firefly (2002) the main character, Malcolm Reynolds, says "The Wheel never stops turning, Badger" to which Badger replies "That only matters to the people on the rim". Likewise, a physical version of the Wheel of Fortune is used in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, a film by George Miller and George Ogilvie. In the movie, the title character reneges on a contract and is told "bust a deal, face the wheel." In the science fiction TV series Farscape, the fourth episode of the fourth season has main character Crichton mention that his grandmother told him that fate was like a wheel, alternately bringing fortunes up and down, and the episode's title also references this. Unlike many other instances of the wheel of fortune analogy, which focus on tragic falls from good fortune, Crichton's version is notably more positive, and meant as a message of endurance: those suffering from bad fortune must remain strong and "wait for the wheel" of fortune to turn back to eventually turn back to good fortune again. Ignatius J. Reilly, the central character from John Kennedy Toole's novel A Confederacy of Dunces, states that he believes the Rota Fortunae to be the source of all man's fate. In the Fable video game series, the wheel of fortune appears twice, somehow perverted. The Wheel of Unholy Misfortune is a torture device in Fable II. It is found in the Temple of Shadows in Rookridge. The Hero can use the wheel to sacrifice followers to the shadows. In Fable III, Reaver's Wheel of Misfortune is a device that, once activated, sends to The Hero a round of random monsters. The Wheel of Fortune is featured in a Magic: the Gathering card by that name that forces all players to discard their hands and draw new ones.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rota_Fortunae
Wheel of Fortune is R.O.T.A or TARO and TORA all 3 are born in same meaning :the workings of a social engine ROTARY'S WHEEL EMBLEM
A wheel has been the symbol of Rotary since our earliest days. The first design was made by Chicago Rotarian Montague Bear, an engraver who drew a simple wagon wheel, with a few lines to show dust and motion. The wheel was said to illustrate "Civilization and Movement." Most of the early clubs had some form of wagon wheel on their publications and letterheads. Finally, in 1922, it was decided that all Rotary clubs should adopt a single design as the exclusive emblem of Rotarians. Thus, in 1923, the present gear wheel, with 24 cogs and six spokes was adopted by the "Rotary International Association." A group of engineers advised that the geared wheel was mechanically unsound and would not work without a "keyway" in the center of the gear to attach it to a power shaft. So, in 1923 the keyway was added and the design which we now know was formally adopted as the official Rotary International emblem. www.icufr.org/abc/abc01.htm
www.rotaryfirst100.org/history/history/wheel/
The most popular symbol is the All seeing eye, and most popular hand signs are the Horn and the 666. Any study of Music and ... Circle (Rotary symbol)
[These are the symbols used by the Reptilian proxy group, the Reptoids (Illuminati, & Freemasons), collectively are known as Satanists or Luciferians. The signs of Evil. The most popular symbol is the All seeing eye, and most popular hand signs are the Horn and the 666. Any study of Music and Movies will find all the usual suspects (proving Satanic control), along with some symbols for mind control. If you want a symbol to use stick with the heart, the exact opposite of Evil. They like to cut them out and offer them to Lucifer, see Blood sacrifice. All the worshiped 'Gods' are a few Anunnaki/Reptilians going under various names down the years such as: Nimrod/Anubis/Horus/Osiris/Baal/Shamash/Janus/Quetzalcoatl/Baphomet/Lucifer/Moloch etc, hence all the snake and horn symbols. The symbols are their secret language, and you can see the connections down the years by the use of the same symbols, e.g. Freemasonry, the US Government, and Communism with the Hidden hand, the hidden hand of history.]
One of my favorite categories of photos in my my local tibetan photostudio photographer collection are "mistake" images that weren't picked from the studios up because of a protruding finger or camerastrap or a bad exposure...
It's getting harder and harder to find these images because digital photography is rapidly replacing film even in this part of the world. Most "mistake" images are deleted in camera and never printed. Also the prints are now made on cheap inkjets and the quality is horrible.... Of course occasionally you'll find an anachronistic studio with an old school photographer, or at least you used to. My guess is that by my next trip I won't be able to find any more of these.
My single cover for "Mistake" by Demi Lovato. This is the first single cover that i've made in awhile that i'm absolutely proud of. I've spent months trying to do something with this photo. It's just been frustrating to try and do something with it because of the coloring, but now it finally worked out. I honestly liked how this turned out. Feedback?
Mexican postcard by M.R.M., no. 3630. This is Claire Rommer, not Ita Rina. This portrait is from the film Der Walzerkönig/The Waltz King (Manfred Noa, 1930), in which the two actresses starred together. Collection: Marlene Pilaete.
Elegant German actress Claire Rommer (1904 - 1996) appeared in about 50 German film productions during the 1920s and the early 1930s. Her successful career suddenly ended with the seizure of power by the Nazis.
Claire Rommer was born as Klara Romberger in Berlin, Germany, in 1904. Although her parents had sent her to a boarding-school she defied the opposition of her family and attended the famous Max-Reinhardt-Schule in Berlin. Almost 17-years old, she debuted as a temporary assistant at the Neuen Volkstheater (New People's Theater) and the Volksbühne (People's Stage). As a soubrette, she later appeared repeatedly in operettas and comedies on the Berlin stage, especially at the Lustspielhaus (comedy house). In the season of 1925/1926 she was committed to the Vereinigten Bühnen (United Stages). However she became best known as a film actress. She appeared as a lover or a salon lady in dozens of silent films of the 1920s. Rommer made her film debut in Wem nie durch Liebe Leid geschah/Those Who Never Suffered From Love (Heinz Schall, 1922) starring Johannes Riemann. With a light touch she then played leading and supporting roles in such films as Menschen und Masken/People and Masks (Harry Piel, 1923), Die eiserne Braut/The Iron Bride (Carl Boese, 1925) opposite Otto Gebühr, Qualen der Nacht/Torments of the Night (Kurt Bernhardt aka Curtis Bernhardt, 1926) with Ernö Verebes, Herkules Maier (Alexander Esway, 1927) and Kinderseelen klagen euch an/Children’s Souls Accuse You (Kurt Bernhardt, 1927) with Carla Bartheel.
When the sound film was introduced, Claire Rommer also did vocal numbers. She played successfully in the productions Aschermittwoch/Ash Wednesday (Johannes Meyer, 1930), Der Walzerkönig/The Waltz King (Manfred Noa, 1930) opposite Hans Stüwe, Es geht um alles/It’s About Everything (1932, Max Nosseck) with Luciano Albertini, and Tausend für eine Nacht/ A Thousand for One Night (Max Mack, 1933). In 1934 she appeared on stage in the Revue Scala – etwas verrückt (Scala - A Little Crazy) in Berlin at the Scala Theater, when her film and stage career suddenly ended because of the seizure of power by the Nazis. In 1927 she had married the Jewish entrepreneur Adolf Strenger. In July 1938 she was excluded from any activity in the German film industry on the grounds that she probably was not Aryan too. In 1940 she emigrated with her husband from France via Lisbon to the USA. There she divorced Strenger and married a multi-millionaire from the meat industry. She never appeared in a film again. The last reference to Claire Rommer dates from 1981 from Long Island. Claire Rommer died of pneumonia in 1996, at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital in London.
Source: Thomas Staedeli (Cyranos), Wikipedia (German) and IMDb.
And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.
Having spent the early evening up the Sugarloaf mountain taking some photo's to stitch together for this weeks theme... I realised when I went to upload it, that I was in fact a week early.. and had created a landscape panorama.. for long exposure week by mistake!
One face palm later.. I grabbed the camera, and decided to set up the tripod out the back garden.. Enlisting the help of my dear (very patient) daughter, we set about painting angels in the garden with two mobile phones and a camera remote..
Megan was on wings while I concentrated on the halo whlist standing on a foot stool., I guess you could say she's a great wingman.. boom boom!
Every time I've looked at this image on my hard drive, I saw "ooh that was such a pretty accident..." but then I decide not to upload it, because it's clearly a mistake. I was trying to follow the bird and didn't succeed at that. But I think the results are interesting anyway, and I was encouraged to post this by what I just read on this post by "colorfulexpressions" (Antoinette)
www.flickr.com/photos/colorfulexpressions/4464134077/
Do you have any "pretty or happy accidents" you would like to share?
When you do commissions you always hope for the best but plan for the worst and this was the outcome of one of the bad times. We’d found the perfect colour to use but we later found out this was the last colour we should have used. After we had finished and dropped the piece off to the client we got a message back saying some of the spray paint was coming off the wood. We thought they must be mad as spray paint magically seems to go on anything or so we thought. Little did we know that the neon colours we used were made using some different type of alchemy to be produced and resulted in the paint flaking off the wood we were painting. After we got the piece back and started the remedial work needed to get the piece back to looking its best I happened to take these shots. Pretty but i must not forget it came out of disaster
Cheers
id-iom
Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
. . .
"You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'? I'd like -"
"It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns."
"I know it's a poem by Robert Burns."...
Anyway, I keep picturing these little kids playing some game in this big field or rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean, except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy."
—excerpts from J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye
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"Somewhere along the line - in one damn incarnation or another, if you like - you not only had a hankering to be an actor or an actress but to be a good one. You're stuck with it now. You can't just walk out on the results of your own hankerings. Cause and effect, buddy, cause and effect. The only thing you can do now, the only religious thing you can do, is act. Act for God, if you want to - be God's actress, if you want to. What could be prettier? You can at least try to, if you want to - there's nothing wrong in trying." There was a slight pause. "You'd better get busy, though, buddy. The goddam sands run out on you every time you turn around."
—excerpt from J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey
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John Keats
John Keats
John
Please put your scarf on.
Do I go on about my brother's poetry too much? Am I being garrulous? Yes. Yes. I go on about my brother's poetry too much. I'm being garrulous. And I care. But my reasons against leaving off multiply like rabbits as I go along. Furthermore, though I am, as I've already conspicuously posted, a happy writer, I'll take my oath I'm not now and never have been a merry one; I've mercifully been allowed the usual professional quota of unmerry thoughts. For example, it hasn't just this moment struck me that once I get around to recounting what I know of Seymour himself, I can't expect to leave myself either the space or the required pulse rate or, in a broad but true sense, the inclination to mention his poetry again. At this very instant, alarmingly, while I clutch my own wrist and lecture myself on garrulousness, I may be losing the chance of a lifetime - my last chance, I think, really - to make one final, hoarse, objectionable, sweeping public pronouncement on my brother's rank as an American poet. I mustn't let it slip. Here it is: When I look back, listen back, over the half-dozen or slightly more original poets we've had in America, as well as the numerous talented eccentric poets and - in modern times, especially - the many gifted style deviates, I feel something close to a conviction that we have had only three or four very nearly nonexpendable poets, and I think Seymour will eventually stand with those few. Not overnight, verständlich. Zut, what would would you? It's my guess, my perhaps flagrantly over-considered guess, that the first few waves of reviewers will obliquely condemn his verses by calling them Interesting or Very Interesting, with a tacit or just plain badly articulated declaration, still more damning, that they are rather small, sub-acoustical things that have failed to arrive on the contemporary Western scene with their own built-in transatlantic podium, complete with lectern, drinking glass, and pitcher of iced sea water. Yet a real artist, I've noticed, will survive anything. (Even praise, I happily suspect.) And I'm reminded, too, that once when we were boys, Seymour waked me from a sound sleep, much excited, yellow pajamas flashing in the dark. He had what my brother Walt used to call his Eureka Look, and he wanted to tell me that he thought he finally knew why Christ said to call no man Fool. (It was a problem that had been baffling him all week, because it sounded to him like a piece of advice, I believe, more typical of Emily Post than of someone busily about his Father's Business.) Christ had said it, Seymour thought I'd want to know, because there are no fools. Dopes, yes - fools, no. It seemed to him well worth waking me up for, but if I admit that it was (and I do, without reservations), I'll have to concede that if you give even poetry critics enough time, they'll prove themselves unfoolish. To be truthful, it's a thought that comes hard to me, and I'm grateful to be able to push on to something else. I've reached, at long last, the real head of this compulsive and, I'm afraid, occasionally somewhat pustulous disquisition on my brother's poetry. I've seen it coming from the very beginning. I would to God the reader had something terrible to tell me first. (Oh, you out there - with your enviable golden silence.)
I have a recurrent, and, in 1959, almost chronic, premonition that when Seymour's poems have been widely and rather officially acknowledged as First Class (stacked up in college bookstores, assigned in Contemporary Poetry courses), matriculating young men and women will strike out, in singlets and twosomes, notebooks at the ready, for my somewhat creaking front door. (It's regrettable that this matter has to come up at all, but it's surely too late to pretend to an ingenuousness, to say nothing of a grace, I don't have, and I must reveal that my reputedly heartshaped prose has knighted me one of the best-loved sciolists in print since Ferris L. Monahan, and a good many young English Department people already know where I live, hole up; I have their tire tracks in my rose beds to prove it.) By and large, I'd say without a shred of hesitation, there are three kinds of students who have both the desire and the temerity to look as squarely as possible into any sort of literary horse's mouth. The first kind is the young man or woman who loves and respects to distraction any fairly responsible sort of literature and who, if he or she can't see Shelley plain, will make do with seeking out manufacturers of inferior but estimable products. I know these boys and girls well, or think I do. They're naive, they're alive, they're enthusiastic, they're usually less than right, and they're the hope always, I think, of blase or vested-interested literary society the world over. (By some good fortune I can't believe I've deserved, I've had one of these ebullient, cocksure, irritating, instructive, often charming girls or boys in every second or third class I've taught in the past twelve years.) The second kind of young person who actually rings doorbells in the pursuit of literary data suffers, somewhat proudly, from a case of academicitis, contracted from any one of half a dozen Modern English professors or graduate instructors to whom he's been exposed since his freshman year. Not seldom, if he himself is already teaching or is about to start teaching, the disease is so far along that one doubts whether it could be arrested, even if someone were fully equipped to try. Only last year, for example, a young man stopped by to see me about a piece I'd written, several years back, that had a good deal to do with Sherwood Anderson. He came at a time when I was cutting part of my winter's supply of firewood with a gasoline-operated chain saw - an instrument that after eight years of repeated use I'm still terrified of. It was the height of the spring thaw, a beautiful sunny day, and I was feeling, frankly, just a trifle Thoreauish (a real treat for me, because after thirteen years of country living I'm still a man who gauges bucolic distances by New York City blocks). In short, it looked like a promising, if literary, afternoon, and I recall that I had high hopes of getting the young man, a la Tom Sawyer and his bucket of whitewash, to have a go at my chain saw. He appeared healthy, not to say strapping. His deceiving looks, however, very nearly cost me my left foot, for between spurts and buzzes of my saw, just as I finished delivering a short and to me rather enjoyable eulogy on Sherwood Anderson's gentle and effective style, the young man asked me - after a thoughtful, a cruelly promising pause - if I thought there was an endemic American Zeitgeist. (Poor young man. Even if he takes exceptionally good care of himself, he can't at the outside have more than fifty years of successful campus activity ahead of him.) The third kind of person who will be a fairly constant visitor around here, I believe, once Seymour's poems have been quite thoroughly unpacked and tagged, requires a paragraph to himself or herself.
It would be absurd to say that most young people's attraction to poetry is far exceeded by their attraction to those few or many details of a poet's life that may be defined here, loosely, operationally, as lurid. It's the sort of absurd notion, though, that I wouldn't mind taking out for a good academic run someday. I surely think, at any rate, that if I were to ask the sixty odd girls (or, that is, the sixty-odd girls) in my two Writing for Publication courses - most of them seniors, all of them English majors - to quote a line, any line from "Ozymandias," or even just to tell me roughly what the poem is about, it is doubtful whether ten of them could do either, but I'd bet my unrisen tulips that some fifty of them could tell me that Shelley was all for free love, and had one wife who wrote "Frankenstein" and another who drowned herself.* I'm neither shocked nor outraged at the idea, please mind. I don't think I'm even complaining. For if nobody's a fool, then neither am I, and I'm entitled to a non-fool's Sunday awareness that, whoever we are, no matter how like a blast furnace the heat from the candles on our latest birthday cake, and however presumably lofty the intellectual, moral, and spiritual heights we've all reached, our gusto for the lurid or partly lurid (which, of course, includes both low and superior gossip) is probably the last of our fleshy appetites to be sated or effectively curbed. (But, my God, why do I rant on? Why am I not going straight to the poet for an illustration? One of Seymour's hundred and eighty-four poems - a shocker on the first impact only; on the second, as heartening a paean to the living as I've read - is about a distinguished old ascetic on his deathbed, surrounded by chanting priests and disciples, who lies straining to hear what the washerwoman in the courtyard is saying about his neighbor's laundry. The old gentleman, Seymour makes it clear, is faintly wishing the priests would keep their voices down a bit.) I can see, though, that I'm having a little of the usual trouble entailed in trying to make a very convenient generalization stay still and docile long enough to support a wild specific premise. I don't relish being sensible about it, but I suppose I must. It seems to me indisputably true that a good many people, the wide world over, of varying ages, cultures, natural endowments, respond with a special impetus, a zing, even, in some cases, to artists and poets who as well as having a reputation for producing great or fine art have something garishly Wrong with them as persons: a spectacular flaw in character or citizenship, a construably romantic affliction or addiction - extreme self-centeredness, marital infidelity, stone-deafness, stone-blindness, a terrible thirst, a mortally bad cough, a soft spot for prostitutes, a partiality for grand-scale adultery or incest, a certified or uncertified weakness for opium or sodomy, and so on, God have mercy on the lonely bastards. If suicide isn't at the top of the list of compelling infirmities for creative men, the suicide poet or artist, one can't help noticing, has always been given a very considerable amount of avid attention, not seldom on sentimental grounds almost exclusively, as if he were (to put it much more horribly than I really want to) the floppy-eared runt of the litter. It's a thought, anyway, finally said, that I've lost sleep over many times, and possibly will again.
(How can I record what I've just recorded and still be happy? But I am. Unjolly, unmerry, to the marrow, but my afflatus seems to be punctureproof. Recollective of only one other person I've known in my life.)
—poem and excerpt from J.D. Salinger's Seymour An Introduction
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I was staring, as I remember, directly in front of me, at the back of the driver's neck, which was a relief map of boil scars, when suddenly my jump-seat mate addressed me: "I didn't get a chance to ask you inside. How's that darling mother of yours? Aren't you Dickie Briganza?"
My tongue, at the time of the question, was curled back exploratively as far as the soft palate. I disentangled it, swallowed, and turned to her. She was fifty, or thereabouts, fashionably and tastefully dressed. She was wearing a very heavy pancake makeup. I answered no - that I wasn't.
She narrowed her eyes a trifle at me and said I looked exactly like Celia Briganza's boy. Around the mouth. I tried to show by my expression that it was a mistake anybody could make. Then I went on staring at the back of the driver's neck. The car was silent. I glanced out of the window, for a change of scene.
"How do you like the Army?" Mrs. Silsburn asked. Abruptly, conversationally.
I had a brief coughing spell at that particular instant. When it was over, I turned to her with all available alacrity and said I'd made a lot of buddies. It was a little difficult for me to swivel in her direction, what with the encasement of adhesive tape around my diaphragm.
She nodded. "I think you're all just wonderful," she said, somewhat ambiguously. "Are you a friend of the bride's or the groom's?" she then asked, delicately getting down to brass tacks.
"Well, actually, I'm not exactly a friend of--"
"You'd better not say you're a friend of the groom," the Matron of Honor interrupted me, from the back of the car. "I'd like to get my hands on him for about two minutes. Just two minutes, that's all."
Mrs. Silsburn turned briefly - but completely - around to smile at the speaker. Then she faced front again. We made the round trip, in fact, almost in unison. Considering that Mrs. Silsburn had turned around for only an instant, the smile she had bestowed on the Matron of Honor was a kind of jump-seat masterpiece. It was vivid enough to express unlimited partisanship with all young people, all over the world, but most particularly with this spirited, outspoken local representative, to whom, perhaps, she had been little more than perfunctorily introduced, if at all.
"Bloodthirsty wench," said a chuckling male voice. And Mrs. Silsburn and I turned around again. It was the Matron of Honor's husband who had spoken up. He was seated directly behind me, at his wife's left. He was seated directly behind me, at his wife's left. He and I briefly exchanged that blank,uncomradely look which, possibly, in the crapulous year of 1942, only an officer and a private could exchange. A first lieutenant in the Signal Corps, he was wearing a very interesting Air Corps pilot's cap - a visored hat with the metal frame removed from inside the crown, which usually conferred on the wearer a certain, presumably desired, intrepid look. In his case, however, the cap didn't begin to fill the bill. It seemed to serve no other purpose than to make my own outsize, regulation headpiece feel rather like a clown's hat that someone had nervously picked out of the incinerator. His face was sallow and, essentially, daunted-looking. He was perspiring with an almost incredible profusion - on his forehead, on his upper lip, and even at the end of his nose - to the point where a salt tablet might have been in order. "I'm married to the bloodthirstiest wench in six counties," he said, addressing Mrs. Silsburn and giving another soft, public chuckle. In automatic deference to his rank, I very nearly chuckled right along with him - a short, inane, stranger's and draftee's chuckle that would clearly signify that I was with him and everyone else in the car, against no one.
"I mean it," the Matron of Honor said. "Just two minutes - that's all, brother. Oh, if I could just get my two little hands -"
"All right, now, take it easy, take it easy," her husband said, still with apparently inexhaustible resources of connubial good humor. "Just take it easy. You'll last longer."
Mrs. Silsburn faced around toward the back of the car again, and favored the Matron of Honor with an all but canonized smile. "Did anyone see any of his people at the wedding?" she inquired softly, with just a little emphasis - no more than perfectly genteel - on the personal pronoun.
The Matron of Honor's answer came with toxic volume: "No. They're all out on the West Coast or someplace. I just wish I had."
Her husband's chuckle sounded again. "What wouldja done if you had, honey?" he asked - and winked indiscriminately at me.
"Well, I don't know, but I'd've done something," said the Matron of Honor. The chuckle at her left expanded in volume. "Well, I would have!" she insisted. "I'd've said something to them. I mean. My gosh." She spoke with increasing aplomb, as though perceiving that, cued by her husband, the rest of us within earshot were finding something attractively forthright - spunky - about her sense of justice, however youthful or impractical it might be. "I don't know what I'd have said to them. I probably would have just blabbered something idiotic. But my gosh. Honestly! I just can't stand to see somebody get away with absolute murder. It makes my blood boil." She suspended animation just long enough to be bolstered by a look of simulated empathy from Mrs. Silsburn. Mrs. Silsburn and I were now turned completely, supersociably, around in our jump seats. "I mean it," the Matron of Honor said. "You can't just barge through life hurting people's feelings whenever you feel like it."
"I'm afraid I know very little about the young man," Mrs. Silsburn said, softly. "As a matter of fact, I haven't even met him. The first I'd heard that Muriel was even engaged -"
"Nobody's met him," the Matron of Honor said, rather explosively. "I haven't even met him. We had two rehearsals, and both times Muriel's poor father had to take his place, just because his crazy plane couldn't take off. he was supposed to get a hop here last Tuesday night in some crazy Army plane, but it was snowing or something crazy in Colorado, or Arizona, or one of those crazy places, and he didn't get in till one o'clock in the morning, last night. Then - at that insane hour - he calls Muriel on the phone from way out in Long Island or someplace and asks her to meet him in the lobby of some horrible hotel so they can talk." The Matron of Honor shuddered eloquently. "And you know Muriel. She's just darling enought o let anybody and his brother push her around. That's what gripes me. It's always those kind of people that get hurt in the end ... Anyway, so she gets dressed and gets in a cab and sits in some horrible lobby talking with him till quarter to five in the morning." The Matron of Honor released her grip on her gardenia bouquet long enough to raise two clenched fists above her lap. "Ooo, it makes me so mad!" she said.
"What hotel?" I asked the Matron of Honor. "Do you know?" I tried to make my voice sound casual, as though, possibly, my father might be in the hotel business and I took a certain understandable filial interest in where people stopped in New York. In reality, my question meant almost nothing. I was just thinking aloud, more or less. I'd been interested in the fact that my brother had asked his fiancee to meet him in a hotel lobby, rather than at his empty, available apartment. The morality of the invitation was by no means out of character, but it interested me, mildly, nonetheless.
"I don't know which hotel," the Matron of Honor said irritably. "Just some hotel." She stared at me. "Why?" she demanded. "Are you a friend of his?"
There was something distinctly intimidating about her stare. It seemed to come from a one-woman mob, separated only by time and chance from her knitting bag and a splendid view of the guillotine. I've been terrified of mobs, of any kind, all my life. "We were boys together," I answered, all but unintelligibly.
"Well, lucky you!"
"Now, now," said her husband.
"Well, I'm sorry," the Matron of Honor said to him, but addressing all of us. "But you haven't been in a room watching that poor kid cry her eyes out for a solid hour. It's not funny - and don't you forget it. I've heard about grooms getting cold feet, and all that. But you don't do it at the last minute. I mean you don't do it so that you'll embarrass a lot of perfectly nice people half to death and almost break a kid's spirit and everything! If he'd changed his mind, why didn't he write to her and at least break it off like a gentleman, for goodness' sake? Before all the damage was done."
"All right, take it easy, just take it easy," her husband said. His chuckle was still there, but it was sounding a trifle strained.
"Well, I mean it! Why couldn't he write to her and just tell her, like a man, and prevent all this tragedy and everything?" She looked at me, abruptly. "Do you have any idea where he is, by any chance?" she demanded, with metal in her voice. "If you have boyhood friends, you should have some -"
"I just got into New York about two hours ago," I said nervously. Not only the Matron of Honor but her husband and Mrs. Silsburn as well were now staring at me. "So far, I haven't even had a chance to get to a phone." At that point, as I remember, I had a coughing spell. It was genuine enough, but I must say I did very little to suppress it or shorten its duration.
"You had that cough looked at, soldier?" the Lieutenant asked me when I'd come out of it.
At that instant, I had another coughing spell - a perfectly genuine one, oddly enough. I was still turned a sort of half or quarter right in my jump seat, with my body averted just enough toward the front of the car to be able to cough with all due hygienic propriety.
—excerpt from J.D. Salinger's Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters
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Didn't get a good reference to focus the rangefinder. Meant to focus distance, went to the opposite end of the focus instead. Happy with the way it turned out though.
Sooooo, I decided it was time to shrink the camera collection and traded several cameras (Mamiya 645 Pro, Rollei 35, Nikon F3, and Minolta XD11 with some lenses ) for an M3 Double Stroke. A great choice in my opinion and the M3 WILL get used unlike the others. It's almost as fun to shoot as the M2; I admit that I really like having 35mm frame lines.
Leica M3
Voigtländer 50mm f/2 APO
Fomapan 200
Developed with HC110 dilution B
nikon S2
nikkor SC 5cm 1.4
delta 100
xtol 1:1 17m (pushed to 800)
honolulu hawaii
about 25 frames late I found out I was shooting at f/4-5.6, so I had to push the film
Zoe was really offended when I forgot about her brithday... I thought of ways to recompensate this mistake so I took her to the Polish seaside with me. She is the first doll of mine to see the it ! She still pretended to be angry with me but i know inside she was happy to be "the chosen one" :P
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Hello :) Are you suprised ? Yeah, i know it's not the best time to upload such summery pictures but I couldn't show them to you earlier... also, it's so gloomy these days that seeing these pictures makes me fell a bit warmer and happier :) I think these pics are pretty special, since I am usually VERY afraid of taking doll photos with strangers anywhere near me, but still I wasn't ready to go to the very coast... Maybe someday ?
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Okay, so today I thought I should check my progress with the ADAW project*... i was pretty sure I had one or two weeks left to finish. You wish you could see my face whe I saw it should have finished 3 weeks ago ! I became suspicious and decided to track all the photos from the very beggining ( while finding a couple of very old comments I should've replied to half a year ago...). I fund the gap, but I spend way too much time fixing it... Anyway, the project finishes next week !
* well, I began in 2013 but, uh, you see my speed is....well.... okay...... I should've finished it in January.........but shhhh
ADAW 51/52
NO Edit !!
Exposure: 0.01 sec (1/100)
ISO Speed: 100
Exposure Bias: 0/10 EV
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Iran / Semnan / Damghan / Tarikhaneh Mosque
كهنترين بنای مذهبی اسلام كه هنوز شالوده ساسانی خود را حفظ كرده٬ مسجد تاريخانه(خانه خدا) دامغان است. اين بنا در قرن دوم هجری بعد از مسجد «فهرج يزد» ساخته شده و معماری آن به سبك عربی اسلامی و تركيبی با معماری ساسانی است.
This mosque can be said to be one of the ancient mosques of the Islamic period, known to preserve and uphold its Sassanide characteristics.
“Tari” is a Turkish word which means “GOD” and “Khaneh” is a Persian word,which means, “HOME”.
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When I saw this dress in the sales, it looked great. I checked the sizes carefully - I'd never bought a Joe Browns dress before. So it arrived ... I was looking for something with a 38" waist, the dress had a 44"... There was other stuff ... the collar stood up instead of being flat and my sandals were a dreadful mistake for the photo. But heck, that's life and at least I had the sense not to smear make up on the collar (the dress is going back), unlike some guy travelling from Tulsa ... Donald could learn a thing or two from us.
And the real point of all this is that when I read of the Tulsa flop with TikTok and K-Pop, the Who's great song came back to me (nothing to do with the events) ... The Kids Are Alright!
Mistakes aren't things to be discouraged. On the contrary, they should be cultivated and carefully investigated.
Carol Dweck, a psychologist at Standford, has spent decades demonstrating that one of the crucial ingredients of successful education is the ability to learn from mistakes.
. . . Unfortunately, children are often taught the exact opposite. Instead of praising kids for trying hard, teachers typically praise them for their innate intelligence. . . . This type of encouragement actually backfires, since it leads students to see mistakes as signs of stupidity and not as the building blocks of knowledge.
~ How We Decide, by Jonah Lehrer
4 Common Mistakes When Starting in the Model Railroad Hobby... modeltrains.best-online-solution.com/4-common-mistakes-wh...
Perhaps the most fortunate mistake I have ever made with a camera. This was taken in front of a Mexican restaurant in Flagstaff, Arizona, where the landscaping includes a metal-frame structure designed to look like a saguaro cactus. I had not intended to take any more pictures that day, but one of the other Flickrites involved in the Flagstaff day-trip suggested that I take a picture of the cactus symbol. I had planned to take my tripod on the excursion, but forgot it, so I held the camera in my hands as I took the picture. I don't remember moving my hands during the exposure, but this image proves beyond reasonable doubt that I did so. This was the first time I had ever set the camera for night shots. Aside from a small reduction in the size of the original image, this picture was not edited in any way before posting.
I am not into abstract photography, but one look at this on my LCD was enough to convince me that this one was well worth keeping.
(Footnote: This photo appeared in Interestingness on 8/14/05.)
I just saw lentil cottage pie. I didn't read the rest of it. They have a nerve calling it cottage pie.
Tentei passar pra essa manipulação parte do que estava sentindo, então como eu tava super pra baixo, meio triste com tudo o que anda acontecendo, a mani ficou bem "caidinha".
É proposital o vazio nela e as cores, não queria fazer nada "a mais", queria deixar a atenção nisso mesmo, o vazio dela.
É legal descontar as emoções na edição, se você está triste até que melhora um pouco depois de ver o resultado.
O nome eu escolhi meio que de acordo com o que passei, por causa de um erro que cometi, foi criada uma enoooooooorme confusão que ainda está se acalmando (:
Se quiserem eu posto o tutorial na comunidade, já que foi feita em PFS (eu ainda não me arrisquei em fazer manis em PS KK)
Espero que gostem, beijos :*
- Original: i35.tinypic.com/eu124w.jpg
