View allAll Photos Tagged Plug
15. To "Plug" the end of the tubes and not go too far into the notch I hung the vent and placed the tip in a shallow pool of JB Weld.
Silence
No candles to be lit
No laughter to be heard
The dirty, white, forgotten plug is cast aside
Never to be used again
No sweet aromas waft through steamy air
Eucalyptus, Lavender, Rose…
An arid, porcelain landscape simply left to molder
Where you and I once laughed
Where you and I once conversed
Now… nothing
Silence
Just silence
by Sandra Cano
Canon EF 100mm f/2.8 USM
f/4.5, 0.125 sec (1/8), ISO 200, 100 mm
Blown #4 spark plug on Ford Triton 4.6l engine. The coil on plug has broken off the mounting and come up past the fuel rail. The fuel rail is damaged.
Day eighty-one of The 100 Day Project for 2021.
I had many words in my head toward the end of the day yesterday when thinking about drawing this and sharing it with you. And then later when actually sketching.
I knew I was going to tell you that this was the last plug sketch, I promise! (It is).
And after two power outages yesterday - the first affecting about 580 properties served by our local substation, the second affecting one in three properties served by it - it felt appropriate to draw an unplugged plug again.
I sketched yesterday's plug by a mixture of candlelight, mobile phone torchlight, and desk-lamp light as they brought our power back up.
Angling my phone in just such a way that the light from the torch on my phone hit the page so I could see the 4H pencil lines I was making, but also refer to my source image on my phone at the same time.
I can't say the sketch would have been better if produced in daylight or under a reliable desk-lamp light. But maybe it's not terrible, considering the circumstances.
As I regularly do, I sketched it with a 4H pencil, then drew over the lines with an HB pencil.
After discussions about the state of the world with close friends via chat, I was preparing to edit and share yesterday's sketch when I received an unscheduled call from Mum's nursing home. The first in almost three months.
And it completely disarmed me. Not in a good way.
I'll be the first to admit I generally get the 'sanitised' version of my mum's dementia. A lot of effort goes into finding the right moment. When Mum is friendly; at least a little lucid; ideally knows who I am; and open to engaging with a device she doesn't understand.
So today's call was really hard, though I appreciate Kim attempting it. Her heart was in the right place. I can't fault her for that.
But Mum looked tired. She looked older than I've ever seen her look.
She spoke like someone afraid of silence.
What she spoke of - as disjointed as it was - obviously affected her emotionally. Where, usually, I would smile at her encouragingly and nod politely when her sentences drifted off into nonsense, today smiling and nodding felt wrong. Even if I didn't know what she was talking about, it obviously upset her.
About the only piece of discernible discourse happened because Kim referred to my mother, talking to me. But Mum misunderstood it as a reference to her own mother. And she knew she was long gone, even if she didn't know who I was.
Clementine Ford posted recently about what would have been her late mother's 72nd birthday. My mum is 75.
I read her post and thought to myself, "When Mum finally passes, it will be easier than that".
Even before the onset of her dementia, we often found ourselves at an impasse.
While I would have considered her my best friend when I was in my late teens and early 20s, it had been years since we'd seen eye to eye on most things.
Especially in the ten years before her dementia became evident, there was a window where we were both at the right level of tipsy that we could reconnect. There was a point where we recaptured that mutual admiration and affection, usually poring over her family photos after dinner.
But much of the rest of the time, our vastly different personalities clashed.
I've rarely been one to withhold my opinions. But Mum always held to the saying that you don't discuss politics or religion in polite company. I could have (mostly) lively, open debates with my Dad and Uncle about contentious subjects without it (always) turning sour. Mum only saw disagreement and conflict, not a healthy exchange of ideas, even if she wasn't in the conversation.
Our Skype call this morning brought it home to me that my perception of it being somehow easier to let her go when the time comes because of all of the above is just false. It's still going to hurt.
It hurts now, and I miss her already.
Electrical outlets are embedded in the walls, steps and floor, so you don't need to look far to find a place to charge your electronics.
iMAL, Brussels, February, 2016
Wannes Missotten's and Torri Nickmans' plug.2 is an intriguing hybrid installation in which audiovisual threads form a scattered but dense loop carpet. At the vernissage (10 February), the installation will host an obstructive performance by the sound-duo Kire Noisemachine.
There are lots of plug sockets in this building - I guess it was where a lot of the equipment was kept.
My sister, Angela, and her boyfriend, Thomas, plugged in at the hotel en route to WI during our bi-annual trek to Wisconsin to visit family (the winter/Christmas visit). They play farmville, which I give them no end of crap for. Loved this shot, and the lens continues to enjoy newfound favoritism. There's no better lens in my bag for just documenting all the stuff that goes on during a trip or visit. I love the wide field of view and the way it's made me re-learn how to compose and properly fill the frame.
Sigma 10-20, UV filter.
I've exposed your lies, baby
The underneath's no big surprise
Now it's time for changing
And cleansing everything
To forget your love
And my plug in baby
Crucifies my enemies
When I'm tired of giving
Wooah