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Well, I can't actually prove it was a mermaid, but I do have significant facts to back up my claim. I couldn’t see any feet, she was diving into a small pool in an idyllic setting, and she didn't have a top on.… she just had to be a mermaid. That is my ample evidence and I think that should be proof enough for most. As I was too shy at the time of the sighting to interrupt her mermaid duties by taking a photograph, I came back the next day and figured that someone must have scared her away because only a still empty pond remained to remind me of my almost perfect photograph. Alas, I'm on to continue my search for Bigfoot... I expect him to be topless also.
Kauai, Hawaii.
At Le Tire-Bouchon in Montmartre, Paris.
One that you might want to see bigger: 'proofs of passage' On Black.
To an uneducated fool like myself, I needed a map to exactly see what was going on with railroad history in this part of the world. I just assumed that the L&N always had control of any trackage pointed towards Hazard. Well, I now know that the C&O actually built part of the territory CSX utilizes nowadays. C&O's E&BV Subdivision continues north from this point til Martin Yard and then needs a little help from the Big Sandy Extension to reach the Big Sandy Sub at Beaver Junction in Allen City, KY.
On the south end of the C&O trackage at Deane, KY there was a common load out that was served by both the C&O and L&N. Early on in the CSX era they decided to blow a hole in the hillside north of the loadout and create a connection between the two subdivisions. Seamless operation now occurs between the Rockhouse Sub (L&N) and the E&BV/Big Sandy.
So, I ventured out shopping at last.
This was my first dressed outing since lockdown and, amazingly, my first time shopping alone.
I learned a couple of things - a face mask helps boost the confidence, knowing that others can only see half of your face and, a face mask really messes up your lipstick....lol
The proofs arrived for my first five prints to be sold in my online shop, which is pretty exciting. The first run will be Signalera, 1976, Dagger Woods, Munich and Commodore 64. They are all 18" x 24".
The colors turned out nice and bright on a semi-gloss stock, and the shapes are super sharp.
©2008 James White. All rights reserved. www.signalnoise.com
Somewhere deep inside this swamp there are beavers apparently. I never saw any but I did find this.
North American Beaver (Castor canadensis)
Rowlett Creek Nature Preserve Greenbelt Area, Garland
My photos can also be found at kapturedbykala.com
Even if it turns into bones, it has a presence that overwhelms those who see it. Here is proof that it once reigned at the top of the food chain. At the museum in Ueno.
... that you can wear an orange dress in broad daylight and still no one is paying any attention to me! (or my camera n a tripod...)
But yes, that's the joy of it all!
There is a moment here that few ever come to realize---
A proverbial two fingers of ‘reserve proof’ poured into a crystal tumbler, there to be savored sip by sip in just reward---
An equilibrium of sorts in the push and the pull of everyday, a stasis in the corporate heartbeat which those who count beans and stare at computer screens in Fort Worth and Omaha and Jacksonville are perhaps unknowingly deprived of---
Moments that never register as a spike on a graph or spreadsheet or a figure on a quarterly earnings report, and one in which those poor souls sheltered in the glass and concrete facades of Wall Street are seemingly, and hopefully, oblivious to.
They are jealously reserved for those hearty individuals who laced up boots and learned a skill or trade or craft, one that doesn’t involve the tying of a Windsor Knot around the neck every morning and enduring a commute to a cubicle or corner office, there to lash it as a marionette to various rungs about a corporate ladder.
Yet, they are instants of brevity that rarely, if ever, convert to dollars and cents on a direct deposit slip that arrives in the mailbox every other week.
They are as a fringe benefit that only the worthy are afforded, those sage and seasoned souls who earned their credentials in the extremes of physics and metallurgy, and the temperature and other elemental challenges that Mother Nature seemed fit to bestow upon their existence in a 24-7-365 fashion.
When, at midnight, a knuckle lets go and gladhands separate on a grade, and the curses emanating from the locomotive cab are as angry as the lightning slashing from the darkened sky, with sheets of rain arriving in chapter-and-verse proportions straight from the pages of Genesis, threatening to wash from the land all those who dare venture into it---
Someone still has to go out and replace the damn thing.
These character-building moments are steeped well in tradition, their seeds first planted in the Welsh soils of Penydarren, there to be watered fully with saturated steam at the hand of a Cornish fellow by the name of Richard Trevithick.
Water is powerful, and useful, and ancient---
And in its antiquity, it is patient.
That which has fallen upon the geologic ramparts that schism the land from north to south, needs some place to go.
For eons it has sought the seas, and in an effort to reach them it has flowed from headwaters in the Sawatch Range and the Sangre de Cristos, scouring prehistoric and ever-changing channels across the land in a seemingly random and meandering fashion.
The Arkansas and the Cimarron and the Canadian Rivers, along with their local tributaries and a thousand other flows, have removed sediments from the land since the Laramide orogeny, 80 million years ago, and faithfully deposited them into the oceans, leaving the High Plains of today’s continental United States anything but flat.
Water, perhaps more than any other natural element, has been the bane of railroad builders and operators for more than two centuries. It has created rivers to bridge, canyons to blast rights-of-way out of, and then it has sent raging torrents down to destroy both; yet without it, Trevithick’s contraption would remain as fanciful as anything Jules Verne could imagine.
And though the builders of the Southern Kansas Railway had no gorges to contend with, they were nonetheless saddled with the watersheds that rippled the land across Indian Territory and all the way to the bluffs of the Llano Estacado over Texas way.
Here, in the cool and colorful and splendorous moments that precede the dawn of an April morning, is evidence of such.
While the eastbound grade up out of the valley of Wolf Creek is by no means as mentionable as that which tunnels under Raton, it is still held in respect by those who throttle their charges along BNSF’s Panhandle Subdivision.
Our crew aboard an old Dash-9 has reached a brief interlude, an over-the-hump equilibrium of sorts on the great curve at Gerlach, Oklahoma. Just moments before, our hogger set his units for dynamic braking, and trumpeted for the South County Road 198 grade crossing as he coaxed 6,000 tons and just as many feet of train up from Shattuck, in the process rolling over names like Buzzard Creek and Boggy Creek, and running along the margin of Sand Creek, there to push over the top of the grade and have the windshield view filled with this.
In days long passed, when conductors and engineers were revered and respected and were the absolute authorities over their realms---
When brass was polished and boiler jackets shined and lace curtains could be found in the cab and caboose alike---
Coffee brewed on a potbelly stove or was kept hot in a mason jar placed strategically against the locomotive backhead, there to be shared in drowsy moments along a run that began in Amarillo sometime after midnight.
Today, the waycars are long gone and backheads have morphed into digital control consoles, but coffee is still the nemesis of fatigue, with fresh aromas filling the cab as the hot contents of a stainless-steel thermos bottle are poured into a travel mug---
A Rule G-compliant version of ‘reserve proof’ not quite hot enough to burn the tongue with the first sip, but just right.
And in that savoring, there is only the rumble of an FDL behind the bulkhead, and the whine of dynamics as the aged GE performs as advertised.
Nothing else.
No words to spoil the moment.
Only a brief intermission when all the world is right.
A stasis between the push and the pull of life.
While the tie knotters are still fully in slumber, the fortunate take their pleasure in hot coffee and a gaze out over the valley of the North Canadian River, and there before them, as an ornament dangling on the invisible bough of orbital gravity---
The last dying sliver of a crescent moon---
Faint and struggling in the eastern sky, trapped between the receding colors of night and the luminance of an emerging day---
A gift from the universe, either by chance or by design, presented to them at this particular spot on a curve they’ve rounded countless times.
Soon enough the signal at West Gerlach will come into view, and they’ll roll down into Woodward on a ‘clear’ indication.
But for now, in the last few semi-tranquil seconds, there is little else to do but admire creation in all its multi-hued glory.
It never gets old.
One might wonder, only in a joking manner, really, if the view from corporate headquarters could be this magnificent.
Perhaps not audible above the throb and drone of diesel locomotion, a slight chuckle offered forth from the right-hand seat might answer that question---
Not a chance in hell.
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Special thanks to Jeff Ford for his assistance in the preparation of this piece.
It's hard to dial down the sheer animal magnetism.
It's not the best picture, but this is the proof that Todd and I were on vacation together! This was outside the Museum of Fine Arts.
Sunrise, Echo Lake.
Whiteshell Provincial Park, Manitoba, Canada
EchoLake _2014_07_21_05-34-57_DSC_0250_©LindsayBerger2014
This is a long story. It happen several years ago. Names have been changed to "protect" the innocent.
“The Pelican Proof”
I did not know, on that cold March day, that I would become the source of new experiences for the neighbors. These things cannot be planned.
It all started as I was coming home from the hardware store. I was unaware that the hand of God had been guiding my selection of the largest, industrial sized mop bucket that Home Depot offered for sale that day. Nevertheless, I usually am unaware that the Almighty has a task for me, until the task lands in my lap.
That mop bucket was bouncing around in the back of the Pick-up truck when I wheeled around the corner to my home only to find a Pelican slowly waddling down the middle of the street in front of my house. The bird was obviously disoriented and very weak. I dismounted the Pick-up Truck and said, “hey buddy, are you o.k.?”
Even in its deteriorated and half-frozen state, it attempted to shrug me off and to run away from me. The poor bird was staggering like a little drunk and when it spread its wings to try to fly, it teetered and tottered like the hopelessly drunken fools on the “Cops Television Show” trying to convince the “Ossifer” it was only “twree dwinks”. Despite its weakened state the bird kept just ahead of me. I needed help.
Being the resourceful woman that I am, I surveyed the driveways on the street to see which unsuspecting husbands, significant others, and children of other women were home. I found two of them. One is an architect and the other a computer programmer.
When requested to help me capture the bird they both looked at me dumbfounded and said, "excuse me, I don’t believe that I have ever been asked to do such a thing!”
God Bless Men. I mean it sincerely. When presented with an unusual and somewhat strange request most of them are totally up for the adventure.
We coordinated and went in for the capture. We were in for an adventure. The bird opened its enormous beak and spread its wings to threaten us .It hissed and popped its beak and looked, for all the world, exactly like a pterodactyl in a horror movie. We moved closer and the bird gave up its threats, and turned to run. We fanned out to limit the Pelican’s escape options. There we were three middle-aged people, and a Pelican who appeared to be drunk, staggering this way and that down the street. We cornered the bird in the architect's yard. I reached in and grabbed the beak and each of my recruited heroes gently grabbed a flapping wing. The herding heroes folded the pelican’s wings against its body and lifted the protesting bird into my arms.
I brought the Pelican into my home and locked it in the bathroom for safekeeping while I thought about our mutual predicament. I slumped against the door and said, “Well, smarty pants, what are you going to do now?” Pelicans have no voice, so they cannot squawk, but they do pop their beaks to threaten, and a very loud snake-like hiss escapes their throats. Anyone who thinks that birds are not related to dinosaurs needs to listen to a Pelican’s hissing. On the other side of the bathroom door, there was a lot of hissing and popping going on and it was loud!
I needed still more help, so I called my daughter, Sara. “Sweetheart”, I intoned, “you have to come and help your mother, now!” Since Sara grew up with this kind of thing happening all the time, she was not particularly shocked, and came to her mother's aid. When she heard the raging, hissing and popping going on in the bathroom, she looked at me and said, “Mom, what have you got in there, really?” Imagine that, the role reversal had finally happened. I was not asking her about what was so interesting in the bathroom she was asking me!
“A Pelican … see,” I cracked the door; a cacophony of hissing, popping, and fluttering erupted in the bathroom. All we could see was flapping wing tips and a flashing beak. Sara reeled backwards, “Good God, that is one enormous bird are you sure you can handle it?”
“God never gives us more than we can handle.” This was a prayer not a statement of faith. I was thinking that God might have been a wee too confident in my abilities.
Sara and I scrounged some fish from an unsuspecting local fish market entrepreneur. The poor man had no choice but to surrender his inventory, below cost, to two charming and determined women. He conceded that he did not wish to be responsible for a dead Pelican, and turned over the fish I wanted. I felt like a blackmailing bank robber, but I was on a mission!
We came home and began to negotiate a truce using the fish as a bribe. I herded the Pelican into the kitchen. Pelicans can have a seven-foot wingspan and the bird needed more room to stretch, and I needed an escape margin.
I dangled a fish and the bird turned its royal head sideways to take my measure with its blue eyes. The long beak and pouch rested on its snowy chest, and for a brief moment, I thought all the fussing was finished. The bird hissed, lunged and grabbed my arm up past my elbow. I flinched, but I did not move. Pelican beaks are serrated backwards to keep hold of fish. I was more stuck than brave. If I had pulled back, I would have left half my flesh. I did however have sense enough to release the bait. The Bird realized I had done something good. It let go of my arm and kept the fish. The Bird permitted me to feed it this way until I ran out of fish. When I came up empty handed the hissing and popping started all over.
I had to go and get more fish. I locked the pelican in the bathroom and went to get the fish. This time I paid retail.
Now this is where the mop bucket meets the story...a pelican is a very large bird, and they have very large poop. Between the time that I left the house to get more fish, and the time I returned, the Pelican decorated my bathroom with... you guessed it...lots of pelican poop!
I transferred the bird back to the kitchen and cleaned up the bathroom with my new mop bucket and lots of disinfectant.
The feeding struggle re-commenced in the kitchen. By degrees, the bird calmed down as its stomach was filled. We had reached a compromise. I would not be bitten as long as I had a fish in my hand and minded my manners.
Both the Bird and I were worn out from the struggle, but I had one more thing to do. I called Trapper Drake, my husband, at his office and broke the news over the phone... "We have a Pelican in the Kitchen"... I have only experienced a pause that long coming from Jack Benny in a TV show when he was asked to pick up a check at a restaurant.
"And how did 'we' manage to do that?" he uttered in controlled tones over the phone. I explained what happened. “Oh, and be careful, not to step in the poop when you get home, bye-bye, love you sweetie.”
I do not know what went through his mind, but he was reconciled to the problem by the time he got home.
Hours later, Trapper Drake walked into the house, kissed me hello and sailed into the kitchen as if everything was normal. He walked right past the Pelican and over to the counter to get a bite to eat. I held my breath and squinched my eyes expecting the Pelican to fly into a hissy-poppy fit. Nothing happened. I peeked.
That damn bird had waddled right up to Trapper and was gazing at him like a long lost lover. My jaw hit the floor. The bird was practically leaning on his leg, and Trapper was cooing sweet nothings at it. “What’s the matter, friend? Have you been having a bad day? Was the weather a little too cold for you? Well, we can fix you right up.”
My sense of Altruism was shattered. Here I was, bruised and scratched up past my elbows. I had been wounded in the line of duty, treated like a stable hand, hissed at all day long; and in walks Trapper to take all the glory and thunder.
I bedded the Pelican down in the bathtub, and tucked my bruised feelings under the covers of my bed. I muttered something to Trapper about ungrateful feather-brained bi-pedal creatures and sulked off to sleep.
The next morning the love affair continued shamelessly in my face. I brought the Pelican into the kitchen and un-wrapped some more fish. I was hissed at again, but I did manage to avoid having my arm injured. The Pelican then looked me in the eye, and pooped in the middle of the kitchen floor; then waddled over to where Trapper was reading the newspaper, and settled in beside him in a very possessive manner.
I do not think that I have ever been treated that way in my life! How does one let a Pelican know that “she” is out of line? Oh, Yes, I was sure it was a “she”.
We decided to try to verify if I was correct. We found out that a female Pelican will have a beak twelve inches long and a male will have one fourteen inches long. Trapper had to measure her beak, because she would not let me near her with anything but food. He put the ruler beside her head and, yes, we had a Girl Pelican who came to be known as Pelly.
“See”, I sniffed at Trapper, “I told you she was a hussy”.
Pleased with himself, old Trapper just grinned at me and cooed at the bird calling her a “pretty little Pelly”.
Well, there it was, Trapper had an exotic new friend, and I was doing the mop-bucket ballet. The pity of it all was that I had no one to blame but myself.
My daughter, Sara, came over the next morning and surveyed the situation.
“Mom, this is one of the most outrageous love affairs I have ever seen. You have to get that bird back with her own kind. If she imprints on him any further she’ll be building a nest and getting broody.”
“Tell me about it! I’ve been looking at it for two days now.”
Sara and I called a wild life rehabber who already had a small flock of recovering Pelicans. She could not get to us for another two days. I pleaded, “The Bird has fallen in love with my husband and is making goo-goo eyes at him at this very moment. Help me!”
“Nope, can’t do it”, she said, “Besides, I know that you have done wild life rehabbing in the past, and that Pelican is perfectly safe in your care. I have people out there who are in a total panic and they do not know what to do with a sick animal. You are way down the triage list.”
I was going to have to swallow my pride and reach an understanding with Pelly in order to get through the next two days. I would have to stay away from Trapper and provide all the food, and clean up every bit of poop; and she would get all the petting and praise. Did I fail to mention that I am sometimes a poor negotiator?
Accordingly, Pelly and I reached a truce. As long as there was no overt display of affection between Trapper and me, I could feed Pelly a fish without being bitten. Moreover, I could do my other duties sans hissy-pop supervision.
The day of separation arrived. The rehabber called and said she would be here in one hour.
I offered Pelly the last fish and she gently took it from my hand. My heart dissolved. My inter-species rival had accepted me as her equal, and I was going to loose her within the next few moments. I felt saddened, as if I was going to loose something that I did not want to release. Sara came back and the three of us sat in the kitchen with Pelly. For the last time we took pictures of Pelly and Trapper engaged in their morning routine like old familiar friends of decades. All of us relaxed into the exquisite lightness of being fellow creatures of this planet. During those last few and precious minutes of communion, the value of life, of just being alive, and able to share time and space, sparkled and glowed like an inexpressibly beautiful crown jewel.
I am blessed and fortunate for the care that God takes when he gives me an assignment.
That anything can be made to look good on camera. Even the electric, barbed wire fence at Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp, shot against a beautiful sunset.
Probably the final upload of my photos from Auschwitz. Time for some happy pictures from now on!
Street Photography Now by Sophie Howarth and Stephen McLaren. (Available October 2010 published by Thames & Hudson, London Paris & New York)
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Mmmm... fresh glossy printing ink - on real paper! Which will become a real book! These are the first proofs - and I'm all excited again - even though it won't be published until later this year...
I know it's a bit previous to be mentioning it, but since there has been nothing good published on the subject for almost 20 years... (since Westerbeck & Meyerowitz's "Bystander" - and now you'd need to sell your grandmother to be able to afford a copy of that) I just can't help myself!.
Street Photography Now: 50 world class photographers represented in over 300 inspiring, beautiful, extraordinary or simply gobsmacking photographs.
All to be reproduced on decent sized pages so you can really see the images in detail.
4 text essays put what's happening now, where it's happening and why into context, and also ask some provocative questions along the way. "A global conversation", where a number of the photographers share their ideas, rap about how they work and expand on why they feel compelled to do what they do.
And throughout the book there are extensive quotes, pearls of wisdom or simply great little photo related one-liners that'll make you smile from all the photographers .
Keep your eyes peeled...
[UPDATE: Since this picture was posted back in January, we have had the pleasure of seeing in-public's "10" published. A great little book celebrating their 10 years of existence available from Nick Turpin Publishing. Some of the in-public photographers are also featured in "SPN"; as we've been calling it throughout the research, writing, design, editing and production processes]
go to TW's website to check out my interview and gallery of my favorite photos.
skateboarding.transworld.net/1000188193/photos/proof-shee...