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In his "Metamorphoses," Ovid relates the story of the goddess Venus vainly trying to restrain her lover, the mortal Adonis, from departing for the hunt. The mood of playful sensuality conceals the tragic irony that Adonis is destined to be killed during the hunt by a wild boar. Titian painted two versions of the composition; one in 1554 for Philip II of Spain (now in the Prado, Madrid), and the other shortly before 1570 for the Farnese family (lost). The present picture is a version of the second composition, and since cleaning (1976) can be seen to have been painted in large part by Titian, the greatest painter of the Venetian Renaissance. (Gallery label)
In the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
The title can relate to the car or this man's low riding pants. Decide for yourself. I have no idea what these two are talking about. For all we know, he may have a lesion on his stomach or maybe he painted a smiley face on his chest, or maybe he's just proud of his abs. In any event, it was an unusual moment in an interesting setting. The old 1958 Chevy Bel Air completes the scene. And yes, the horizon is off purposely. Havana, Cuba, March 2019
Best viewed large by pressing "L". All rights reserved
I can relate, Teddy.
I took this shot last fall and made it a B&W for a challenge. I really like the original, though, and I feel a sense of anguish from seeing this little bear up there.
15 years ago yesterday my sweet Momma went on to the next place. As I told my friends yesterday, that's 5,475 days of me missing her. Make that 5,476 now.
This entry relates to the north-eastern most part of Arnhem Land, Northern Territory, that receives the first light as the sun rises in the east. This is the landscape during April and the start of the harvst season following the wet, when the earth receives sudden showers during what is meant to be the dry. This artwork was painted on a huge piece of bark and tells the story about a group of spirit women who appear as stars in the night sky.
Records relating to the repair of this bridge go back many hundreds of years, indicating how vital it was for access from the lands of Howgill, Sedbergh etc in the old county of North Yorkshire with the parishes of Firbank and Grayrigg on this side of the river.
The lane, bottom left, leads to the old Water-powered Mill & Poole House, then up to Dillicar, Lowgill, Davy Bank and Firbank.
It is a very beautiful old bridge, and very narrow. Only narrow vehicles can get across!!
The river Lune is still in its infancy here, and this scene is to the south of the Lune Gorge and Tebay Gap.
RED relates to the BASE chakra situated at the base of the spine
The organs to which this chakra relates are the kidneys and bladder .(The kidneys are formed within the pelvis and here they link with the base chakra energy, although prior to birth they rise to the position in the loins with which we are more familiar). The vertebral column, hips and legs are also areas related to this chakra. The endocrine gland to which this colour relates is the adrenal gland.
On the psycho-spiritual level, this chakra relates to self awareness. That is to say our awareness of ourselves as human beings and our place on earth. It is the area of survival and relates to our basic human instincts of fight or flight. Red gives us courage and strength. The colour relates to stability and security.
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On my last outing I found this Yellow-crowned Night Heron just wanting to sleep in the early morning. I can relate to him/her today and will be a bit slow getting to everyone’s posts. Just as his eyes were drifting shut here, my eyes will need to do the same in order for me to recover from an extremely busy day yesterday. Photo taken on Armand Bayou.
DSC02099uls
Some impressive hummingbird facts relate to their flying skills. Unlike any other species of bird, hummingbirds can fly backwards. Even more incredibly, it has recently been discovered that this is actually an efficient means of moving, and requires roughly the same energy as flying forwards. Flying backwards allows hummingbirds to cheerfully reverse from flowers after they feed, saving energy and looking seriously impressive into the bargain.
I can relate to that. One of the topics of discussion last night was how my beard is going gray.
If you're old, then act like it. I am going to lay on the couch, nap and watch football all day.
Have a youthful Sunday everyone! :)
[polska wersja niżej]
This photo relates to the flood in Gdańsk, about which I have written here, but I think I will rewrite the story again and provide a better view on the story background.
It's one of trains diverted from electrified mainline into secondary diesel route: originally nigh train no. 38209 from Kraków Płaszów to Koszalin. SU46-039 on the train head yet in original paint scheme from Żagań depot. After the diesel - here "cold" originally employed to this train EP07-338. The train is passing Gdańsk Osowa station entering two-track section towards Gdynia. July 11, 2001.
Photo by Jarek / Chester
9 lipca 2001 roku w Gdańsku to był całkiem ładny dzień, przynajmniej taki się zaczął i trwał do południa. Koło niego nadciągnęły ciemne chmury, zapowiadając kolejną letnią gwałtowną burzę. Jak spadały pierwsze krople deszczu, nikt nie przeczuwał, że w ciągu popołudnia na miasto lunie dwa razy więcej wody, niż w całym typowym lipcu. Każdy metr kwadratowy przyjął prawie 130 litrów, a tylko między 15 i 17 spadło, a w zasadzie dosłownie polało się strumieniem z nieba 90 litrów na metr kwadratowy. Ulice leżące na zboczach moreny dennej falistej, bo miasto to nie tylko wybrzeże, ale i morenowe pagórki, zamieniły się w dna potoków spływających w dół. No a w dole, głównie na południu, u brzegu płaskiego terenu ujścia Wisły zaczęło tworzyć się jezioro.
Wpływająca od południa z Kaszub niewielka Radunia przerwała w paru miejscach kanał, w którym biegła i zalała południowa część miasta, dzielnice od Oruni (dolnej), przez Lipce do Świętego Wojciecha. Powódź dotknęła też nasypy linii kolejowej, uszkadzając torowisko w paru miejscach. Pod wodą były też tory samego Gdańska Głównego. Ruch kolejowy między Pruszczem Gdańskim (a w zasadzie Tczewem) i Gdańskiem na kilka dni zamarł.
Ponieważ jednak mówimy o czasach, gdy kolej była jedna, wielka i niepodzielna (choć podzielona na sektory), naprędce wypracowano rozwiązanie, które w dzisiejszych czasach byłoby nie do pomyślenia - skierowano objazdem wszystkie dalekobieżne pociągi pasażerskie na trasy objazdowe. I tak pociągi z Gdyni w kierunku Bydgoszczy jechały starą Magistralą Węglową przez Kościerzynę i Wierzchucin i dalej na Łódź, czy Katowice. Pociągi w kierunku Malborka i dalej Olsztyna czy Warszawy jechały zaś przez Kościerzynę, Bąk, Czersk i dalej "Ostbahnem" do Tczewa, gdzie powracały na normalne trasy. Oczywiście na trasach objazdowych zastosowanie miała trakcja spalinowa, a elektrowozy ciągnące pociągi nie zostawały odczepiane (oprócz paru wyjątków) i odbywały podróż "na zimno" na objazdach.
Z punktu widzenia podróżnego te objazdy to rozwiązanie tylko po części rozsądne - dzisiaj zapewne wprowadzono by komunikację autobusową od Tczewa do Gdyni, przez co nastąpiłoby wydłużenie jazdy może sumarycznie o godzinę. Wtedy, przez wprowadzone objazdy, pociągi doznawały kilkugodzinnych opóźnień, a całkiem niedawna likwidacja niektórych stacji na "węglówce" drastycznie pogorszyła przepustowość dwutorowej linii. Z drugiej strony, pasażer w kuszetce, czy sypialnym z głębi kraju na Hel, dotarł do celu podróży w tym samym łóżku, tyle, że 3-6 godzin później.
Sytuacja awaryjna trwała parę dni, po czym przywrócono ruch po głównej linii, z pewnymi ograniczeniami (ograniczenie prędkości w miejscach podmycia nasypu). Jeszcze parę dni po przywróceniu ruchu część pociągów towarowych kursowała niezelektryfikowanym objazdem z uwagi na problemy z przepustowością.
Na zdjęciu SU46-039, jeszcze w oryginalnych żagańskich szatach, z nocnym pociągiem 38209 z Krakowa Płaszowa do Koszalina, opuszcza stację w Gdańsku Osowie. Za dieslem - elektrowóz oryginalnie ciągnący nocnego "kuriera" - EP07-338. 11 lipca 2001 roku.
Fot. Jarek / Chester
A Kind of Anchorage (A work/mediation in progress)
My title derives from, and acknowledges, Harold Pinter's 'A Kind of Alaska'. Although it shares its title with the name of the capital of that cold state, my subject for mediation is of another state completely. It is geographically divorced from that region of America.
It relates more to the Anchorage or Anchorhold of medieval self-imposed isolation. There is a fundamental difference between the hermit and Anchorite of that distant time. Whilst the hermit removed him or herself from the community and went into self-imposed exile, the Anchorite chose to be incarcerated or isolated within the community. These Anchorholds were usually a small cell carbuncled onto a church where the Anchorite was immured. His (the Anchorite) or her (the Anchoress) role was thenceforth to be that of mediator between the community and what was held to be the divine.
Pinter's play, in turn, was inspired by 'Awakenings' by Oliver Sacks. Pinter acknowledges this in the introduction.
"In the winter of 1916-17, there spread over Europe, and subsequently over the rest of the world, an extraordinary epidemic illness which presented itself in innumerable forms--as delirium, mania, trances, coma, sleep, insomnia, restlessness, and states of Parkinsonism. It was eventually identified by the great physician Constantin von Economo and named by him encephalitis lethargica, or sleeping sickness.
Over the next ten years almost five million people fell victim to the disease of whom more than a third died. Of the survivors some escaped almost unscathed, but the majority moved into states of deepening illness. The worst affected sank into singular states of "sleep"-conscious of their surroundings but motionless, speechless, and without hope or will, confined to asylums or other institutions.
Fifty years later, with the development of the remarkable drug L-Dopa, they erupted into life once more."
In Pinter's play Deborah describes this incarceration:
'Oh dear. (the flicking of her cheek grows faster)
Yes, I think they're closing in. They're closing in.
They're closing the walls in. Yes. (She bows her head, flicking faster, her fingers now moving over her face)
Oh.well.oooohhhh.oh no.oh no.(during the course of this speech her body becomes more hunch-backed) Let me
out. Stop it. Let me out. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
Shutting the walls on me. Shutting them down on me. So tight, so tight. Something panting, something panting.
Can't see. Oh, the light is going. They're shutting up shop. They're closing my face. Chains and padlocks.
Bolting me up. Stinking. The smell. Oh my goodness, oh dear, oh my goodness, oh dear, I'm so young. It's a
vice. I'm in a vice. It's at the back of my neck. Ah.
Eyes stuck. Only see the shadow of the tip of my nose.
Eye's stuck. (She stops flicking abruptly, sits still.
Her body straightens. She looks up. She looks at her fingers, examines them) Nothing.'
Between these spaces, this disease-imposed Anchorage, and the chosen Anchorhold of the medieval Anchorite is the area I want to pillage and mediate.
Not certain how this relates to Cool Hand Luke, but I have to say that this Great Brown Heron did have a bit of shaking going on while resting in the shallow waters along Horsepen Bayou. Yes, it is a juvenile Great Blue Heron that hasn’t transitioned to the adult blue colors and my Great Brown reference is just another lame attempt at humor. My daughter will tell you that you don’t have to laugh at my jokes. I did like the feather detail.
A7R00536ula
In The Odyssey, Odysseus arrives at the island of Phaeacia and relates the stories of his travels at the court of King Alcinous. One of these stories, which make up the epic of the Odysseia, is the terrible encounter with the cyclops Polyphemus. Odysseus and his men initially broke guesting law (xenia) by entering the cyclops' home, his cave, and eating his cheese and livestock without an invitation. Polyphemus in turn also broke xenia by trapping Odysseus and his crew, and eating several of the men. Polyphemus - a son of Poseidon - mocked Zeus and his laws openly.
Odysseus gets Polyphemus drunk on strong, unwatered wine and he and his men drive a heated stake into the cyclops' single eye, blinding him. This is shown vividly on this black-figure terracotta hydria (water jar), with a drunk giant Polyphemus propped up on the ground, still holding his kantharos (wine cup) as the humans drive the giant stake forward. Above the scene is an ivy vine motif, and below is a palmette and lotus blossom pattern. The other side of this vessel depicts Herakles' pursuit of the centaur Nessus' who in turn is pursuing Herakles' wife, Deianira.
Etruscan, Caere (modern Cerveteri), Necropolis of the Banditaccia, tomb 1, ca. 530-520 BCE.
Museo Nazionale Etrusco (ETRU) di Villa Giulia, Rome
I felt like I could understand this guy.
I'm having an Icelandic-Horse themed week with my photography, and this guy is a prime specimen of what it means to be an horse of Iceland, in my opinion. Long and luxurious mane, sturdy body, longer hair all around... and friendly! We were struck by how happy the horses were to come up to the fence and hang out with us whenever we came by to visit #horsesoficeland #icelandichorses
The 1890 Empress Flour Mill on Queen Street is category C industrial heritage building, which means that its removal is a permitted activity. There are two plaques on the front of the building, one relating to the 118 year old structure and the other to the 1921 grain silos. With a height of 35 metres the category B listed heritage silos are the town's most prominent landmark. They're still in use and will not be demolished.
“Urban art is a style of art that relates to cities and city life. In that way urban art combines street art and graffiti and is often used to summarize all visual art forms arising in urban areas, being inspired by urban architecture or thematizing urban live style.
The notion of 'Urban Art' developed from street art that is primarily concerned with graffiti culture. Urban art represents a broader cross section of artists that as well as covering traditional street artists also covers artists using more traditional media but with a subject matter that deals with contemporary urban culture and political issues.”http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urban_art
“Wild Flowers are not weeds"
Street Art is the modern, urban wildflowers
What's the difference between Graffiti Tagging and Street Art?
1. Street Art is constructive, Graffiti Tagging is destructive.
2. Street Art adorns the urban landscape, Graffiti Tagging scars it and accelerates urban decay.
3. Street Art stretches your mind, Graffiti Tagging is a slap in your face.
4. Street Art is about the audience, Graffiti Tagging is about the tagger.
5. Street Art says "Have you thought about this?", Graffiti Tagging says "I tag, therefore I exist".
6. Street Art was done with a smile, Graffiti Tagging was done with a scowl.
7. Street Art takes skill, Graffiti Tagging takes balls.
8. We mourn losing Street Art and celebrate losing Graffiti Tagging.
Good Street Art is great, good Graffiti Tagging is gone!
”http://www.graffitiactionhero.org/graffiti-tag-vs-street-art.html
Additional interesting sites
www.osnatfineart.com/urban-art.jsp
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Street_art
Graffiti_27 LR
I truly relate to these trees personally, having managed a 4 acre organic pear farm for 7 years. The etched shapes of these trees take me back to the arches of Gothic
The other major change relating to the Central Connect withdrawals is that the 93 is more-or-less replaced by the LC9. It’s similar but not identical and funded by Leicestershire County Council between Nottingham and Bottesford (despite the vast majority of the route falling within Nottinghamshire).
Since the drivers and vehicles for this route are based out of Grantham, some journeys extend to there, to allow travel on what would otherwise be dead mileage for changeovers. However the Grantham to Bottesford section has even more going on which I’ll delve into at a later time.
Journeys on the LC9 are covered by two individual duties which interwork onto different routes, so it starts off with vehicle ‘A’, then swaps to vehicle ‘B’, and then later on back to ‘A’ again. The route regulars are these YY64 E200s, plus a pair of 75 plate E200 MMCs that originated at Chaserider. The 64 plates are 6cyl and have some poke to them.
Here YY64 GWF turns down Friar Lane, Nottingham, on 2.2.26
Appropriate to post an image relating to the railway on rail 200 day
This image depicts Network Rail class 153 '153376' Slowing down through Newcraighall on its way into Millerhill Yard. I was expecting to see at least one other fellow railway enthusiast here as its usually popular with the spotters but this time round it was just me. Not even the passengers waiting on their train into Edinburgh took any notice of it!
This was a really well exposed image and the OHLE provided the perfect frame. and thankfully it was traveling slowly as I don't remember setting the AF to Continuous!
This public domain image relates back to my notes concerning the Arlington House photo shoot of Gen. Heintzelman and Staff - its one of the six different versions taken by Mathew Brady and Alexander Gardner that day in Oct 1862.
Link: www.flickr.com/photos/110677094@N05/54989512443/
In the margin are the identities of three of Heintzelman's staff officers, including E. Parker Deacon and early pioneer photographer Leavitt Hunt. The print provides confirmation of Deacon's identity, whom Robert Knox Sneden misidentified in his scrapbook photo as, “Maj. John Milhau, Chief Surgeon.”
The print is from the Army's MOLLUS-Mass Civil War Photograph Collection, Vol. 31, Page 1510. My past experience with the Army search engine was not good, now the entire collection seems to have been taken offline - none of the hundred or so bookmarks I had stored in my browser are working. A recent Google search provided only dead links. So for Civil War photo buffs, posting this public domain image here on flickr.
I can't say how often I've driven Messenger Road, a potholed passage which never really goes where I'm going. It's a bridge between things, like so much of my life seems to be. It's a metaphor in my mind for a kind of prophecy, the sort you say and then go about trying to make come true. Things to share and the drive to share them, I've got more of that than most. I was once accused of being a "wannabe profit", and though the typo is accurate in the sense that I could use the money, the term "prophet" doesn't really fit me. There is no targeted truth in what I'm writing, no big vision or dream to relate. I'm not planning on predicting the future, only trying to do that old tribal thing. Campfire tales and cave paintings, so we can look back on our lives and back at our faces, and see something that keeping our thoughts to ourselves couldn't show.
November 20, 2022
Paradise, Nova Scotia
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The title of this relates to an article I read some time ago by Ken Rockwell, www.kenrockwell.com/index.htm, in which he explains what is "Good Bokeh", I found it interesting because I happen to be one of those people that think the word good when describing a medium such as photography is subjective and even sometimes what is generally "bad" can be "good" every now and again, if you know what I mean. He even has a chart showing what "poor", "neutral" and "good" bokeh looks like, and I am proud to say I have achieved what I think he describes as "neutral" or "poor" bokeh. Yeah for me!!! :-)))
In truth, I don't disagree with him in looking at this image there is something a little too harsh in the blobs of light here. It certainly is not the "smooth and silky" kind of bokeh. But you know after drinking a few of those glasses of what is in the foreground, nothing was in focus, and that is clearly seen in this image (as nothing in the shot is clearly in focus), so I call the shot a success!! :-))))
Here is a link to the entire story (which is a great read, seriously), www.kenrockwell.com/tech/bokeh.htm, and an excerpt is below.
"Bokeh describes the appearance, or "feel," of out-of-focus areas. Bokeh is not how far something is out-of-focus, bokeh is the character of whatever blur is there.
Unfortunately good bokeh doesn't happen automatically in lens design. Perfect lenses render out-of-focus points of light as circles with sharp edges. Ideal bokeh would render each of these points as blurs, not hard-edged circles."
So I guess I have a good lens and a "neutral" or perhaps "poor" bokeh shot to show for it! All of this is posted in good spirits, hope it reads that way! Cheers!!! :-))
HBW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
St Albans Cathedral, in St Albans, Hertfordshire.
Saint Alban is venerated as the first-recorded British Christian martyr and saint. The most elaborate version of his story, Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People, relates that he lived in Verulamium, sometime during the 3rd or 4th century, when Christians were suffering persecution. Alban met a Christian priest fleeing from his persecutors and sheltered him in his house, where he became so impressed with the priest's piety that he converted to Christianity.
When the authorities searched Alban's house, he put on the priest's cloak and presented himself in place of his guest. He was sentenced to endure the punishments that were to be inflicted upon the priest, unless he renounced Christianity. Alban refused and was taken for execution. In later legends, his head rolled downhill after execution and a well sprang up where it stopped.
Little is known of the early churches built over Alban’s grave. The Shrine of St Alban was the reason for the Abbey’s foundation and the town that grew up around it, and it is said that King Offa of Mercia founded a monastery here in 793.
After the Norman invasion of 1066, William the Conqueror appointed Paul of Caen as the first Norman abbot of St Albans and commissioned a new church. Paul started his great rebuilding of the Abbey with the Tower, which still stands today. This Norman church was built from bricks and tiles saved from the ruins of Roman Verulamium.
In 1213 St Albans Abbey was the meeting place for a group of churchmen and nobles. Their discussions led to Magna Carta which was reluctantly sealed by the king at Runnymede in 1215.
The medieval Abbey was famous as a place of learning. The monks who lived here produced high-quality manuscripts in a workshop called the scriptorium. These included bibles and books on science, music, and classics.
St Albans Abbey was closed in December 1539 and most of the buildings were destroyed. The shrines of St Alban and St Amphibalus were demolished, and Alban’s relics disappeared.
In 1553, the people of St Albans bought the church for their own use. However, the upkeep was expensive and by 1832, the Abbey was in a sorry state.
Wealthy Victorian benefactors paid for the building to be repaired. This included remodelling the West End, removing medieval features, and replacing the statues in the High Altar Screen.
In 1877 what had previously been a local parish church became a cathedral and the seat of the Bishop of St Albans.
Information Sources:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Albans
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Alban
www.stalbanscathedral.org/the-history-of-st-albans-cathedral
Uses: Anything relating to finance and money.
Free Creative Commons Finance Images... I created these images in my studio and have made them all available for personal or commercial use. Hope you like them and find them useful.
To see more of our CC by 2.0 finance images click here... see profile for attribution.
Uses: Anything relating to finance and money.
Free Creative Commons Finance Images... I created these images in my studio and have made them all available for personal or commercial use. Hope you like them and find them useful.
To see more of our CC by 2.0 finance images click here... see profile for attribution.
Daily In Challenge, 10.5.2019
Theme: An image of three - the number three or three repeating of same or like elements or three relating elements.
“Urban art is a style of art that relates to cities and city life. In that way urban art combines street art and graffiti and is often used to summarize all visual art forms arising in urban areas, being inspired by urban architecture or thematizing urban live style.
The notion of 'Urban Art' developed from street art that is primarily concerned with graffiti culture. Urban art represents a broader cross section of artists that as well as covering traditional street artists also covers artists using more traditional media but with a subject matter that deals with contemporary urban culture and political issues.”http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urban_art
“Wild Flowers are not weeds"
Street Art is the modern, urban wildflowers
What's the difference between Graffiti Tagging and Street Art?
1. Street Art is constructive, Graffiti Tagging is destructive.
2. Street Art adorns the urban landscape, Graffiti Tagging scars it and accelerates urban decay.
3. Street Art stretches your mind, Graffiti Tagging is a slap in your face.
4. Street Art is about the audience, Graffiti Tagging is about the tagger.
5. Street Art says "Have you thought about this?", Graffiti Tagging says "I tag, therefore I exist".
6. Street Art was done with a smile, Graffiti Tagging was done with a scowl.
7. Street Art takes skill, Graffiti Tagging takes balls.
8. We mourn losing Street Art and celebrate losing Graffiti Tagging.
Good Street Art is great, good Graffiti Tagging is gone!
”http://www.graffitiactionhero.org/graffiti-tag-vs-street-art.html
Additional interesting sites
www.osnatfineart.com/urban-art.jsp
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Street_art
DSC_0247 final.jpg
Adjective
1. Characterised by lightness and insubstantiality; intangible.
2. Highly refined; delicate.
3. Heavenly or spiritual [Greek aithēr ether]
... a Of the celestial spheres; heavenly.
... b Not of this world; spiritual.
4. Chemistry. Of or relating to ether.
Dedicated to Kounelli for being the first person to comment on this shot, and to the volcanic sharrockmary for being a close second.
I can relate to Frankenstein's monster..there are times when I feel like I've been piecemealed together, my body is a mess. My feet are a size and half different from one another, My left arm is contorted from injury, my spine does not properly align... it goes on and on. But the villagers haven't gathered yet so I'm doing pretty good! LOL
Les Invalides contains museums and monuments, all relating to the military history of France, as well as a hospital and a retirement home for war veterans, the building's original purpose. The buildings house the Musée de l'Armée (the military museum of the Army of France), the Musée des Plans-Reliefs and the Musée d'Histoire Contemporaine, as well as the Dôme des Invalides, a large church, the tallest in Paris at a height of 350 feet. It houses tombs of some of France's war heroes, most notably Napoleon. The architect of Les Invalides was Libéral Bruant. By the time the enlarged project was completed in 1676, the river front measured 643 feet, and the complex had 15 courtyards, the largest being the cour d'honneur ("court of honor") for military parades. Jules Hardouin-Mansart assisted the aged Bruant, and the chapel for veterans was finished in 1679. This chapel was known as Église Saint-Louis des Invalides, and daily attendance of the veterans in the church services was required. Shortly after the veterans' chapel was completed, Louis XIV commissioned Mansart to construct a separate private royal chapel referred to as the Église du Dôme. The domed chapel was finished in 1708. The building retained its primary function of a retirement home and hospital for military veterans until the early 20th century. In 1872 the musée d'artillerie (Artillery Museum) was located within the building to be joined by the musée historique des armées (Historical Museum of the Armies) in 1896. The two institutions were merged to form the present Musée de l'Armée in 1905. At the same time, the veterans in residence were dispersed to smaller centers outside Paris, as the building became too large for its original purpose. The modern complex includes facilities about a hundred elderly or incapacitated former soldiers, including one gentleman sitting outside in full World War II army dress.
Whilst looking at things relating to Plaxton of Scarborough, its probably worth sharing this picture too. I think it was taken on the occasion of a coach operators association visit.
To the fore we have a very nice Supreme bodied Leyland Leopard for Martindales of Ferryhill, PPT 400P . . . which helps date the pictures to '75/6.
The next two Supremes in line are, I suspect, two Bedford YMTs for Harry Shaw of Coventry, NVC 3 & 10P. Further down is the only sevice bus in view which would probably be a Ford 'Derwent' for East Kent.
When I cry, I secretly hope that you will run all the way to mah doorstep in the rain, wipe mah tear, kiss me on the forehead and stay w/ me through the night...
P.s: It's Romantic rite ;)) keke
This relates to the previous photo I posted. The following night I dressed up in a velvet body shirt and black leather mini skirt and went out to a large Disco! I did have fun even though I was nervous with the big crowd.
Eidetic: relating to or denoting mental images having unusual vividness and detail, as if actually visible
2023 A New Year's Eve Soliloquy
I was asked recently by a friend if I would ever be likely to teach someone what
he/she felt were my skills at pickpocketing.
Extremely flattering as the question was, I had never thought of what we do as a skill. Rather than just role play, or taking advantage of a friend’s condition ( like Pissed drunk, or compellingly overwhelmed emotionally) that makes them vulnerable.
We had a discussion over this with my brother and our group of friends, concluding that since non of us would ever try to do a lift on a stranger for keeps, the topic of this being an actual skill is pretty much mute.
That all being said, if there are professional pickpockets that are adept enough to actively lift jewelry from a victim, then either they are incredibly skilled, or just know how to spot an advantage brewing that would cook up into a victim’s concocting condition as described above.
For a clearer example of a concocting condition, let me relate my own experience this past New Year’s Eve.
As is our habit, my friends and I celebrated New Year's Eve at our local “The Poet & Peasant Pub”.
I was on the decorations committee, so I was there to observe most of the guests coming in.
I was at the top of the stairs leading to the upper rooms, placing a party hat on Erik, the skull of the medieval poet who is the pub’s namesake. The macabrely grinning thing sits high on a ledge of the stairs overlooking the pub and its guests (peasants).
So I had a great vantage point to take an early drink and watch.
A friend(and he knows of whom I speak) had sorta challenged me to make a lift this evening. So it was with a thief’s eye that I tried to look innocent as I watched the partiers coming in.
The pub proper is not large, but it has two larger first-floor rooms, one for dance, the other for dart competitions. Since we usually can expect a crowd of two hundred, all three areas come into play.
The upstairs rooms are old bedrooms used for various pub-related antics.
Now, It’s not supposed to be a dressy affair at this party, but the guests, regulars, and visitors make it one.
The gents in suits, and tuxes, the lady’s getting a second chance to show off by wearing an old gown or dress they’ve only worn once.
Rhinestones and pearls are the majority of jewels worn with splashy brilliance.
This year was no exception.
Once it was in full swing one would have thought it was an after-party at a actors' awards show.
Use that thought to picture in your mind a quick visual without me going into boring paragraphs of detail.
But for a brief idea, I’ll describe what my clique was wearing…
Which, since it was one(or more)of us girls that became a victim that evening, it appears appropriate to do so.
So, In my role-play thief's mind I observed:
First off, myself.
I had on a smart ocean blue coloured satin dress with a below-knee length skirt and a slick solid top with a mock turtleneck collar. The sleeves flared out just below my elbows. I was wearing my gold necklace set with diamond Sapphire rhinestones with matching long earrings. Also being worn was my rhinestone cuff bracelet. The same one my brother once nicked from me at the very pub we were now partying at.
I also added two of my real cocktail rings to complete the glittery effect.
As far as the type of mark I’d be for a thief? Well if being a twit came in degrees, and I was in my monthly period, I would be certified as a solid brown belt. If I was wearing real jewels, thieves would be able to have a field day lifting the bloody things, as did actually happen to me in a very similar situation as this evening. But it was not done by a real thief, just by an opportunist who took advantage of a victim who had been having herself a pisser.
But then, this is not that story.
My friend Byrne was wearing an old-fashioned black tux, black vest, black shirt, and blue bow tie, topped off by a black bowler. He had to work late at the Dyfed station that day and said he was wearing the suit he had on. So it was a pleasant surprise to see him dressed up, and I let him know it in no uncertain terms.
My brother was dapper in his tawny-colored herringbone vest suit, brown silk shirt, and gold satin necktie. A gold satin handkerchief stuck jauntily out from a vest pocket.
Ginny had again poured her lithe figure into the sleek satin Japanese-style Qipao sheath dress she had bought to wear in a play she acted in last spring. It was midnight black with a brite lime green inner lining and tight lime green Lycra pants. The only decoration on the elegant dress was a glittery silver rhinestone Dragon, with green slanted eyes and a red fiery tongue. It was embroidered crawling up one side of the dress, reaching around up towards her bosom.
Ginny was wearing a bib-style necklace of rhinestone emeralds with matching earrings.
The necklace she usually wore was still in a police evidence locker at Dyfed ( see my tea party story).
Her hair was held up on one side by a glittery clip. She wore no gloves, so her diamond rhinestone cuff bracelet lay on bare skin, as were the 3 cocktail rings she was wearing.
Ginny would be a tougher nut for thieves to crack. For she is logical to a fault and witty. She is also a black belt in Jiu-Jitsu.
But one really after her jewels, would just have to follow her around to see she is on the wee bit clumsy side. I immediately thought how useful a satin handkerchief could be if employed along the high, partially exposed neckline of her gown to acquire her necklace. And I happened to now know where to obtain one ….
Two other two close friends (members of our role-playing troupe) also eventually showed up.
Merrick was dashing in a James Bond-styled black tux. The vest he wore had a gold and black calico silk pattern.
His Heather enticingly was wearing a very shiny black satin, slightly off shoulders gown with long white lace frills hanging down from the neckline and the gown’s puffy elbow-length sleeves.
Her jewellery was a ruby rhinestone necklace with matching earrings. Like Ginny, one side of her hair was pulled back and held by one of her real diamond chip hair clips. She wore black satin gloves, and around one wrist was the wide tennis bracelet Merrick had given her last Valentine’s Day. It was a beauty, two rows of diamonds and a centre row of round rock rubies. She also wore twin ruby cocktail rings.
Heather is a timid meek little thing who blushed easily and turn her head away whenever complimented(think of Actress Alison Pill ). Also, those black satin gloves of hers would hinder feelings of lifting from her skin.
Mum and Auntie were also in attendance.
Mum was wearing a shimmering dress of silvery metallic material. She was wearing a necklace of round diamond rhinestones, with matching earrings and bracelets. They were ones I first “borrowed “, sneaking them out of mum’s day jewel case and started wearing as my twin and I began first exploring our games of thievery.
Her personality and looks matched the actress Haley Mills. Her eyes getting delightfully large as she was surprised by something. It would be worth trying for her necklace just to witness that reaction.
Father was working the Dyfed station this evening, so my bodyguard-built uncle was the escort of both ladies.
Uncle(or the man from U.N.C.L.E . As I thought of him) was a rugby player in his youth and still had the physic for it. The tight tux he wore looked like it was bursting from the seams over his muscular build. But for all his looks he was a pussycat. Though a fierce darts competitor.
Auntie was very elegant in a long white silk dress with a red and green flowery print. She was wearing her gleaming set of pearls.
Our Aunt reminded me of the actress Janine Duvitski, in looks, and the way she was insecure, like Janine’s character in the Telly series” Waiting for God.” She was a foil to far too many things in her life and would offer no challenge to a proper thief, which may be her saving grace.
Then there was our cousin Michelle(Micke)
She has come there with a group of her coworkers but divided her time with us.
Micke was enticingly wearing a very sleek, slick brown satin fully off-shoulder number that nicely outlined her petite figure as it poured along it down to her silver high heels.
Her Jewels were a sparkling collection that consisted of a wide V-shaped necklace that looked like a falling river of rhinestones, amazingly sparkling chandelier earnings, her favorite diamond-appearing bracelet, and several enticing rings.
But the real showpiece was the eye-grabbing broach she had pinned to the gown just at her waistband. It had a sparrow egg-sized diamond at its centre.
Now blonde Micke just wears her heart upon her sleeve. Just as gullible as her mum, she has fallen victim to many of our pranks. Micke was easy prey to a compliment or falling into a tight, searching hug.
And by now most of the rest of the crowd had entered.
I tapped Erick’s boney jaw open so the poor sod of a poet was grinning, then came down from my perch to begin mugging, er, mingling.
^^^^^^^^
And so the party rambled on, properly behaving like most pub-held New Year’s Eve affairs.
I highly recommend going to one if you have never been.
Plenty to drink, and eat, games to play dancing to music( ours was live this year) camaraderie, storytelling and jokes, attempts to lite the cigar someone had stuck in Erik’s mouth, etc
Oh, And did I mention games?
Especially the one I was playing on my own, pretending to be a thief on the prowl.
I did miss one early opportunity on me mum’s necklace when I stood behind her in the snack line. She had literally backed into me and was reaching down to snag a small pork pie, exposing her throat and necklaces' clasp. But uncle was in front of her and turned to look as she asked him if he had one for himself.
Victims 1 Thief 0
But then as the night went by quickly and since I’m not a real thief, I found myself having so much fun I almost forgot I was looking for a further lifting opportunity.
Almost…
End Acte 1
^^^^^^^^^^^^*
Acte 2
Almost forgot I had been dared to do a lift, that is until I had l came out of the loo around 11:00 and realized I was on my own.
For the first time that evening.
Everyone I had been with was split up into small groups now doing their own thing
I could either join in, watch, or….
And now I thought licking my freshly touched-up lips, time to do something on my own.
So like my pretend thief, I decided to have a walk around and seek an opportunity amongst my chosen potential victims.
Byrne, Merrick, Uncle, and my brother Craig were we’re still playing darts with another group of men. I had been watching before slipping away to freshen up.
Micke and one of her co-workers ( in green taffeta) were amongst a group dancing. I thought of cutting in as a possibility to make a score, for that glittering broach of hers was an enticing calling card.
I watched for a minute or so when suddenly an opening appeared that paved my way in. A man had cut in and was dancing with Micke’s girlfriend. His back to Micke. I curled my fingers while licking my lips ready to plunge in and make a lift of a glittery broach.
I got no more than two steps in when the music stopped and the dancers headed off the floor in the opposite direction, including my Cousin.
I walked away, my heart pounding.
Victims 2 Thief 0
Our Mum and Auntie were sitting at a side table of the long mahogany bar, chatting away. Mum has an almost empty glass, so I surmised she may need to be making a trip to the ladies' room. I stored away that tidbit.
But there, in an opposite corner, underneath Erik’s perch, a makeshift stage was set up. With guests coming up to tell jokes and stories.
It was at one of the tables, chairs backed against the stairway, Ginny and Heather sat listening to an Irishman telling one of his drinking stories.
Both, in my thief’s eye, were a royal treat to be observed. Two enticingly dressed and deliciously jeweled prospects, very distracted, sitting in a rather vulnerable location.
It was all far too tempting, and I felt an overwhelming urge to acquire a piece of jewellery and strted to excitedly tingle from deep within.
Ginny’s necklace was beckoning with a flashy invitation. Heather's elegantly gloved hands with the inviting jewelry she wore, also called out to my inner thief with a fiery blazing hot lure.
^^^^^
The Irishman telling the joke was holding a long cigar as he started, his accent and mannerisms adding much embellishment to the story.
(Look up on Utube Mike Dunafon. An Irish drinking joke)
“Irishman Paddy O'Brien has moved to a small city in Wales. And as men are won’t to do, looks for a new local. He walks into the first pub he finds, and tells the bartender, "Give me three pints of Guinness."
The bartender obediently brings him three pints…..
As the story started I had circled over to the empty staircase and snuck up it till I was level with Heather and Ginny’s chairs. Then I sat down.
I earlier decided that my game would be to lift a piece and make it outside to the victim’s car and write gotcha on it, for my thief to win, if I was caught or stopped by anyone, then I lost.
The Irishman took a long puff of his cigar and carried on.
Paddy proceeds to alternately sip one, then the other, then the third until they're gone. Then he rose, threw coins on the table, winked at the bar mistress, and left.
Meanwhile, I was leaning against the rails, my hands reaching out to the back of Ginny’s throat, aiming for the clasp of her emerald-laden necklace. Figuring once the punchline was given, the laughing (if it was as funny as I hoped) would provide the perfect opportunity.
The Irishman continues…
The next Saturday evening Paddy walks in, hanging his cap, taking a seat, he walks again and orders three more pints.
The bartender brings them over, and says, "Sir, you don't have to order three pints at a time. I can keep an eye on one and when you get low, I'll bring you a fresh pint."
Paddy responds, "You don't understand. I just moved to wales and I have two brothers, one in Australia and one Canada. We made a vow to each other that every Saturday night we'd still drink together. So right now, me brothers are having three Guinness Stouts and we're drinking together.
The bartender thought that it was a wonderful tradition and said as much.
Both Ginny and Heather were now leaning back in their chairs. My fingers had been slowly working on pulling Ginny’s necklace down lower on her back so it would dangle. Just then Heather put her arms behind her chair. Her bracelet danced with rippling sparks that just cried out to the thief in me to be taken.
So, as the Irishman took a sip of his drink, I moved my hands from Ginny, and moving down a stair reached for Heather’s ruby bracelet. As the next part of the joke was told, I delicately worked at removing it.
Now, every week for several years Paddy came in and ordered three pints at a time.
Then one Saturday week he came in and ordered only two pints.
He solemnly drank them, rose. Put on his cap and went over to pay his tab.
The bartender, who had worriedly been watching, said to Paddy, "I know your tradition, and I'd just like to say that I'm sorry that one of your brothers died."
Paddy responded, “oh no, both my brothers are just fine Dontchay knows now.”
The Bartender, puzzled asked, “then why only two beers now? laddie?”
But I never heard the answer, for as Paddy was still drinking his two beers, I had fiendishly slipped off Heather’s glittering ruby bracelet from around her sleekly gloved wrist and had snuck off the staircase and was heading towards the back door.
Victims 3 Thief 1
I managed to slip past the table where my Aunt sat( mum was gone).
Behind me, I hear vigorous laughter and applause at the ending of the Irishman’s joke.
I would have to ask later what it was.
Then, by the entrance to the dart room, I waited until everyone was watching a dart being thrown before walking past the room.
The dance floor was again packed. But I couldn’t spy Micke, so I took a chance and scurried past.
I made it to the door, excitedly letting out my breath as I pulled it open and slipped through into the chilly night.
A couple was walking in the parking lot, so I ducked into a shadowy side alley and skirted around a fence. Kneeling, I peeked through the pickets.
I did not know the couple, but they obviously had been having a great time, though I wondered why they were leaving so soon. The lady was dressed in a blue taffeta gown with prickling rhinestone adornments. Her jewelry also prickled fire in the moonlit evening.
In my thief’s eyes, I saw them being approached and held up. The lady is forced to hand over her jewels to a masked female thief. Not me though, the thief I was picturing had bigger boobs.
Of course, that would be something only I would find to be that amusing, and let out a giggle.
They both heard it and looked around as I slinked back into the shadows.
They shrugged it off and got inside the car.
I took my eyes off them and soon spotted Merrill and Heather’s black sports car.
I rose.
Suddenly a male voice snarled sinisterly from behind me...
“Who let you out all dressed up looking like a mugger's dream?”
I let out a shriek as I jumped up and turned around.
Byrne stood there grinning.
I playfully pounded his shoulder, my heart thumping as I scolded him between breaths that gave off wisps of vapor into the cold night.
“Byrne you rotter. Scared the Jesus out of me you did, and almost peed my undies. And how would that have looked I ask you?!”
Byrne held onto my shoulders and laughed.
“Sorry, you looked so mischievous as I saw in the corner of my eye you sneaking out. I followed, then lost you until I heard the giggle. So tell me what you are up to now?”
I explained to him my game, that upon the thief’s success, I had come out to write “gotcha” on the car door.
“Then what were you gonna after that Ms. Cadence?”
“Follow Heather out when she left and give it back …?”
Byrne looked thoughtfully at Merrick’s car.
“I have got a better idea. She won’t know who did it.”
He led me over to his auto. Goes to the back and pulls a long slender bar from what I call his cop box, in the trunk.
We go over to Merrick’s black sports car and Byrne, looking around first, uses the tool to lift the latch on the passenger side.
“Now lay her bracelet out on the seat.
I did so letting it curl up on the black leather, where it lay sparkling. Then I locked and shut the door.
With a smirk, Byrne reminded me not to forget what else I was going to do
I nodded and in the dirty side of the door, I traced the word “Gotcha” as Byrne went over to put back his tool.
Arm in arm, with a co-conspirator's air, we walked onto the sidewalk, making our way to the front of the pub and went back inside. Innocent as a sparrow…
Another gent was getting up on the stage telling a story so we went and joined Ginny and Heather with an air of innocence as we began laughing along with them.
An old Irishman, Paddy, is about to go to his eternal reward. He looks at his grieving friend, Mike, and says, "Michael, I have one last request."
Ginny’s necklace was still lifted and the backside hanging down. She hadn’t noticed that fact. Nor had giggling Heather noticed her flashy bracelet was now missing.
"Anything, Paddy," Mike says. "What is it?"
"In me kitchen pantry lad, you'll find a bottle of whiskey from the year I was born. When they put me in the ground will you pour it over me grave as a final salute?"
"I will, Paddy," Mike says.
“Thank you Michael, you have been a true and thoughtful lad.”
I nudged Byrne and pointed to my wrist. He looked over and saw that Heather had her hand on the table, with her other gloves hand over it. I was tingling with excitement over how my game had played out.
Byrne nudged me back and I shook my head in agreement. He was loving the fact that we had pulled it off. So like a man to take the whole credit now that he had contributed a wee bit to my game.
We both turned back to listen to the stories finish.
"But Paddy?”
Mike asks earnestly ….
“Would you be minding if I be passing it through me kidneys first?"
The whole room erupted into laughter as the gent merrily raised his glass.
It was then announced that we were only ten minutes away from midnight and everyone should take their places.
I gasped inwardly. Blimey had not been keeping track of the time.
Byrne helped us out of our chairs, and we followed Ginny and Heather to where my brother was standing next to Merrick.
Lights soon dim as the countdown begins
10,9,8,
Everyone behind us is prancing around
7,6,5
We go around hugging. I lift my brother's satin handkerchief from his pocket as I hug him.
4,3,2
I hug Ginny
Wrapping the handkerchief around Ginny’s throat as we hug. Feeling the clasp of her necklace. Oh so tempting.
Victims 4 Thief 1
Then 1 was called out at the stroke of midnight.
“Happy new years everybody!!!”
Lights flicker horns are honked, crackers exploded, and drinks were toasted.
As Ginny turns to hug my brother, I grab and hug Heather, seeing Merrick and Byrne hugging.
I then pull Bryne from his man crush on Merrick and hug him.
Then we spilt up to wish others a Happy New Years.
^^^^^^^^^
We party for another hour before Merrick and Heather say they must leave.
We say our goodbyes and as Byrne and I watch Heather being helped on with her wrap we smirk at each other knowing what she will be finding on her car seat. Love to be a fly on the wall for that.
The music was still playing. A series of slow dances now that the party was winding down.
As we dance, Byrne, looking over at Ginny, commented:
“Damn if Ginny’s necklace isn’t a corker. If I’d been playing your game, I would have had a go for it, though I may have needed a bit of good luck to pull it off.”
I smirked and explained I had originally been attempting to lift it but had gone for the bracelet instead…and that in his case luck may have been needed, but it would not have been good.”
Then, as we both were watching Ginny, with that lovely necklace just sparking away around her throat, I purred into his ear…
“Say the word, and I’ll get for you, my love.”
He shook his head no…
“The scary part is if I said yes you would do it.”
I giggled:
“And wear it until she noticed.”
Byrne smiled:
“You will play nice here the rest of the party won’t you now?”
I nodded as a delighted thought crept into my head.
“So if Ginny had been skulking outside would you have snuck up on her luv, maybe had her hand it over?”
“And have my arse thrown over the fence. No, think I’ll stick to the easily distracted ones who meltdown in my arms.”
“Dream on mister.” I chide him happily.
^^^^^^^^^^^^
Early the next morning as the last of us were kicked out long after the party was officially over, Byrne bundled me into his car, knowing I was too wasted to drive my own self home. I sat there in a mute stupor, hornily replaying the evening's fun.
Suddenly Byrne spoke into the windshield.
“Let’s go to the playground.”
I perked up, for ideas like that usually came from me.
“Your drunk.” I teases
“Well, So are you Lass.”
“But it’s too cold. Let’s go to your flat and play at burglars…”
Byrne, sensing my hot flashy feelings, nudged me…
“I knew you would like to role-play since you were playing your games this evening.”
I poked him
“You were the one to mention muggers. Steal my jewelry and strip me naked, is that what’s in your head me lad?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you have your cuffs?”
That perked him up royally.
“Do you want me to use them?”
I giggled with a burgeoned horny appetite.
“Yes, laddie. On yourself. So you can do the thieving and stripping of my easily distracted person without using your hands.”
I do so enjoy it when one can score by making my Byrne speechless.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
So I would like to think that in real life, once upon a time, there may have been an actual pickpocket attending an actors' award show after a party, with real jewellery being worn, that may have seen what I saw, made observations as I did. and lurked, and waited to take advantage of the situation once it developed.
As I did.
Food for thought
Fini
Mike Dunafon. An Irish drinking joke
Adapting a popular song from the 1970s I often find myself singing 'sometimes I want to be a woman' I do also sing the actual line 'sometimes it's hard to be a woman' too as I can relate to both sentiments. I frequently segue into the chorus line of 'stand by your man' unconsciously then a sudden awareness of what I just sang brings me to a halt! Realisation I'm not a woman crashes in and I feel a mix of regret, sadness and fear yet at the same time I feel contentment, delight and real joy.
My relationship with my transvestism is something that fascinates me greatly and is something I really enjoy analysing and on rare occasions get to discuss, I am completely fascinated by my transgender feelings. I do often question my motives as being a transvestite brings with it a lot of emotions and satisfaction, indeed a sense of fulfilment yet it also carries for me doubt and guilt and confusion.
One of the things that causes me fear is the sheer joy I experience when I dress up as a woman, I absolutely love it and find part of me willing to assume the persona of a female with great eagerness. I really want it and to completely cross the gender line and no longer be a man. That part of me is something I feel I fight and suppress as I have fears of what it may set free. The big fear is it may well destroy my actual life with my wife, family, colleagues and work.
For me to appear, or more accurately attempt to appear as a woman is a heady powerful emotional desire that I will openly admit I am drawn to. I simply adore dressing up as a woman and trying to pass myself off as a female. Surely this is not what a man should be doing? Well, that's what society may tell us yet I live as a man and love to be a woman.
There are for me undoubted thrills that accompany the initial cross-dressing such as I may on occasion become sexually aroused by the act of transforming myself into the opposite gender. There is of course the thrill of performance and creating an illusion, in fact the act of attempting female impersonation (albeit not on stage or for theatrical entertainment) gives me a real buzz despite the fact it I only ever cross-dress in private.
I am keen to pass as a woman and to act the role convincingly. As I love female impersonation and acting I constantly challenge myself to try and become the woman I am appearing as and not let any of the man be evident. As a consequence I try to think myself into believing I am female. To try and feel and act more realistically female I create back stories for my female alter-ego and really try to become her as I find the challenge something that is incredibly adventurous.
Sometimes I almost pass out with fear when I act like I find men attractive or talk about my (imaginary) ex husband and boyfriends. The man in me is repelled by this yet the woman I am attempting to portray feels at home. I do try to get over my male fears as I do dream of one day passing convincingly in every way as a woman. I kind of believe if I want to appear realistically to be female then I need to become female in my thinking and interaction.
I have found, despite my male fears, I do feel more like a female by thinking of the camera as my boyfriend and trying to act a bit flirty. Somehow it adds an extra element of femininity to the vibe and hopefully to the photos.
I rationalise this by telling myself I am supposed to be a woman when I have gone to all of the effort to become Helene so I need to switch over into being her. My body is shaved, my genitals are tucked, I have false breasts, my face is painted in make-up, I'm wearing a wig with a female hair style and I'm wearing knickers and bra and a dress and high heels with painted nails...I am trying to look like a woman so I really should try and make the whole ensemble come together and try and fulfil those efforts in a way that makes the illusion feel convincing and real to those who see her. I want my alter-ego to pass as a woman in every way, it's an ambition I harbour as a transvestite.
My vanity, indeed I'm sure more my ego, would love to one day experience being taken out for dinner as Helene by a man. As a transvestite trying to pass as a woman that surely has to be rewarding? To be wined and dined and treated as a lady and spend the evening as a woman being admired by men is the ultimate in passing. It has nothing to do with sex, it is all to do with an inner dream of being able to pass convincingly as a female.
I feel more at ease talking abut such scenarios now as I know my own sexuality and I know I would have enjoyed working as a female impersonator and acting as a convincing looking transvestite in films when I was younger. I enjoy those films when a woman is revealed to be a man and every body is surprised as they never saw it coming. The same with female impersonation, I am in awe of men who look, sound and can behave like women yet the audience know that she is in fact a man performing as a woman. I have been ridiculed, indeed at times humiliated in the past for expressing these personal views and ambitions but as I get older I now think why not be honest about my own motivations and issues related to why I engage in transvestism.
In this photo from early June I was totally getting into being a woman and would happily have posed with a man on my arm to sell the illusion I was female. I enjoyed wearing this outfit and if I am honest felt very much at home appearing like this. The intensity of the moment was quite something to cope with, I wanted nothing more than to remain female forever. However, about four hours after this photo was taken I returned to being a man and was quite happy to do so. I think the knowledge I desire to dress up and look female and act as if I am female is something I get a buzz from. The fact I rarely get to cross-dress is probably what I find attractive about being a transvestite. If I was a woman full time I would not likely get the rewards I have emotionally and physically that I get from the occasional cross-dressing experiences. Yet, I feel there is a part of me that wishes I was female.
To be a cross-dresser is quite a mixed bag of emotions and motivations, nothing is that clear cut and I confess I rather like this often confusing exciting and worrying mix that goes on within me. I am addicted to it, I really am.
Tradition relates that a castle was first constructed on this site by Rhodri the Great, but there are no remains from this period. Dinefwr later became the chief seat of Rhodri's grandson Hywel Dda, first ruler of Deheubarth and later king of most of Wales. Rhys ap Gruffydd, ruler of Deheubarth from 1155 to 1197, is thought to have rebuilt the castle. Giraldus Cambrensis tells a story about a plan by King Henry II of England to assault the castle during a campaign against Rhys. One of Henry's most trusted followers was sent on reconnaissance, guided by a local Welsh cleric, who was asked to lead him to the castle by the easiest route, but instead took the most difficult route he could find, ending the performance by stopping to eat grass with the explanation that this was the diet of the local people in times of hardship. The planned attack was duly abandoned.
Rhys ap Gruffydd also built the spectacular castle at Carreg Cennen, about four miles away to the south. It is not visible from Dynefwr, but Dryslwyn Castle can just be seen on a hill blocking the Tywi valley to the south-west. Rhys also founded two religious houses during this period. Talley Abbey was the first Premonstratensian abbey in Wales, while Llanllyr was a Cistercian nunnery, only the second nunnery to be founded in Wales and the first to prosper.
On Rhys ap Gruffydd's death the castle passed to his son Rhys Gryg, and the earliest parts of the present castle are thought to derive from this period. Llywelyn the Great of Gwynedd was now extending his influence to this area, and Rhys, finding himself unable to resist, dismantled the castle. Llywelyn however had it restored and held it until his death in 1240. In 1255 Llywelyn the Last gave Dinefwr to Rhys Fychan, then later gave it to Maredudd ap Rhys before later returning it to Rhys Fychan. Maredydd now allied himself to King Edward I of England, and helped Edward capture Dinefwr in 1277. Maredudd had apparently been promised Dinefwr in return for his help, but Edward did not keep his promise and had Maredudd executed in 1291.
Germanisches Nationalmuseum, Nuremberg
The Germanisches Nationalmuseum is a museum in Nuremberg, Germany. Founded in 1852, it houses a large collection of items relating to German culture and art extending from prehistoric times through to the present day. With current holdings of about 1.2 million objects, the Germanisches Nationalmuseum is Germany's largest museum of cultural history.
Formerly the Germanisches Museum, it was founded by a group of individuals led by the Franconian baron, Hans von und zu Aufsess, whose goal was to assemble a "well-ordered compendium of all available source material for German history, literature and art".
The buildings incorporate the remaining structures of the former Nuremberg Charterhouse, dissolved in 1525 and used for a variety of secular purposes until in 1857 what was left of the premises, by then badly dilapidated, was given to the Museum.
-wiki-
I wanna live on a country lane
Some place where no one knows your name
and I'll forget you too
I'll forget you, too
I wanna sleep in late
I wanna start from the top
and clean my suede
And I'll forget you, too
And I'll forget you, too
I believe in fate
I believe my brain can conversate
I believe it's true
I believe it's true
Well I can't relate
I just read through my lines
and flip the page
It's something I can't do
It's something I can't do
Well I believed in you
And you believed in me
But I know this is happening
happening
happening
happening
And I believed in you
And you believed in me
And I know this is happening
happening
happening
happening
happening
happening
happening
(Telekinesis - Country Lane,)
Twelve Desperate Straight Lines, 2011.
PLEASE, NO GRAPHICS BADGES, OR AWARDS IN COMMENTS. They will be deleted.
[polska wersja niżej]
This photo relates to the story told some time ago at this picture. Here ST43-395 with sugarbeet train is closing up to Raciąż station. Surprisingly SM30-277 appeared after the loco. This small shunter of the first Polish diesel locomotive class with appliance of diesel-electric transmission was detached from the consist in Raciąż and taken by sugar factory's shunting locomotive TEM2 to the factory. I don't know whether it was a loco's renting or wnything else.. October 9, 2005.
Photo by Jarek / Chester
ST43-395 wraz z niespodziewaną w takich okolicznościach SM30-277 oraz składem pełnym buraków cukrowych wjeżdżają do Raciąża rankiem 9 października 2005 roku. Tutaj SM30 została wypięta i wzięta na zakład do cukrowni - nie wiem, czy była to forma wypożyczenia lokomotywy manewrowej, czy coś innego.
Fot. Jarek / Chester