View allAll Photos Tagged Thrumming
Happy Wednesday!, :)))
The Blushing Tom.... ;-)
The male, approaching a female in a courtship ritual will blush brilliantly red and blue about his face and throat, fan his broad brown and white tail, lower his outspread wings and emit loud thrumming noises through his air sacks as he prances in a shuffling strut.
This is from our visit to Aaron and Sarah's hobby farm!! :))
l hope everyone who stops by today is having an awesome day/afternoon/evening....and from the bottom the me heart, thanks so very much for your visits. :)))
Feliz Miércoles!,:)))
El ruborizándose sacando Tom .... ;-)
El hombre, acercarse a una mujer en un ritual de cortejo se vista de color rojo brillante y azul sobre su rostro y la garganta, su amplio abanico de color marrón y cola de color blanco, su menor outspread alas y emiten fuertes ruidos thrumming a través de sus sacos de aire como él prances en un revolver strut .
Esto es de nuestra visita a Aaron y Sarah su afición granja! :))
l esperanza de que todo el mundo se detiene por hoy está teniendo un impresionante día / tarde / evening....and la parte inferior de la me corazón, gracias por lo mucho de sus visitas. :)))
For more info: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wild_Turkey
We move like cagey tigers, oh we couldn't get closer than this.
I usually overlook the 68s at York. They are often just there, in the background. Purring. But they won't be in the background before long.
So while waiting for 1Q62, and in between pints of Night Garden in the York Tap and a "tea" of pork pie and scotch egg, I thought I'd pay them some attention.
Between finishing work at 15.30 and catching my train home at 20.20, there were no less than 10 class 68s through the station, of 6 different identities.
Sat in the York Tap, 68028 thrummed away, sounding like it was about to depart, even though it was just idling.
On reflection, I'll miss them when they gone. They do sound good when they set off.
The Love Cats.
Left to right: 68032 with the stock for 1U80 19.48 Scarborough to Manchester Piccadilly, 68029 Courageous with 1U59, 16.04 York to Scarborough and 68023 Achilles with 1U60, 14.48 Scarborough to Man Picc
You might find this photo .. so simple and not even worth to view.. But it means a lot to me and its talk about precious memories of mine .. just wanna share :)
----------------
This song really gets me :)
--------
Moments of happiness will
they ever come back?
Embraced by darkness now that you are gone
Leaving me, why can't you see
I'm standing in the rain
Calling out your name
In my memories I see you smile
The road to the future was in tour eyes
I can see you like I used to do
In my memories of you
Searching thrum my soul
there is nothing inside
Every day time takes its toll
It hurts me so when you say you must go
The love we shared is not coming back
I saw the light in your eyes
Shining down on me
I saw the light in your eyes
Shining on me
People have lived on this site in Stainborough since the Iron Age. The remains of a now much disguised hillfort lies under the 18th century folly on the hilltop. Following the Norman Conquest, the lands were owned by the De Lacey’s. In the mid 13th Century it was owned by the Everingham family, who sold it to the Cutlers in 1610.
Wentworth Castle is an estate born of a bitter family feud. When Thomas Wentworth’s expectations of inheriting nearby Wentworth Woodhouse were dashed in 1695, he bought Stainborough Hall, some seven miles to the north in 1708 and began to create a house and gardens to rival his usurper, changing its name to Wentworth Castle.
His son William inherited the estate in 1739 and carried on his father’s work – and his feud.
Years of neglect and decline have seen the landscaped park partially return to nature. An early 21st century project has partially regenerated the gardens and parkland, halting the decline, but there are still decaying remnants to be found of the park’s former glory. This corner of the estate, now woodland inhabited by deer was once a series of ponds, overlooked by the neo-classical rotunda based on the Temple of Tivoli. The ruins of retaining walls and sluice gates can still be found and in wet winters, the ponds still hold a little water.
On a summer evening, when the warm air is full of the sound of deer fawns playing in the long grass, Stainborough Park is a magical place. It is possible to be transported to a place apart from the modern world, if you can zone-out from the background thrum of the nearby M1.
Explored #143, thank you my friends for your visits and comments :)
A indoor dance performance in Guilin that involves ballet, acrobatics and laser show...
very entertaining... we have enjoyed it very much....some of you have indicated that you have preferred this shot, so I'm posting this one up :p
Photography was not allowed.. but I managed to sneak in a few shots with ISO 1600!
My heart was thrumming... hoping that someone will not stop me and confiscate my camera! hahahha...I was very sneaky.... I used a piece of paper to cover my screen as I know that the screen will be lighted up after I take a picture.... no problem for me as I viewed the scene from my view finder :p
He had been an ordinary man in an ordinary chair when suddenly the world began to swell around him. He jumped up in terror as the spider on the carpet became a colossal machine of muscle and glassy eyes.
And still, he diminished.
Beyond molecules, atoms spread apart into wide solar systems of charge and probability. He wandered through a quantum wilderness where motion became suggestion and cause blurred into effect. He expected nothing beyond this frontier: the last limit science could conceive.
But there was more.
As he shrank past quarks, past the Planck veil, something astonishing revealed itself. Not void, not silence: immensity. A universe as vast as the one he had left, filled with galaxies that thrummed with their own physics, stars that sang in unfamiliar tones, worlds circling in cosmic geometries. It was not small at all, it was simply scaled to him now.
Still he shrank, trapped in a nightmare he could not control.
And then, to his surprise, he arrived in a room.
A modest room with a carpet and a wooden chair.
And in that chair sat a man.
Himself.
Staring, wide-eyed, at the world beginning to swell.
a Wonderful Sunday and :
"Take the A Train"-- Duke Ellington,
You must take the A Train
To go to Sugar Hill way up in Harlem
If you miss the A Train
You'll find you've missed the quickest way to Harlem
Hurry, get on, now, it's coming
Listen to those rails a-thrumming (All Aboard!)
Get on the A Train
Soon you will be on Sugar Hill in Harlem
my thrum mittens keeping my hands warm for a bit of snowshoeing.
mittens: made by me, alafoss lopi & misc roving for thrums, pattern basic mitten formula with thrumming advice from Hello Yarn / How I Thrum (details on Ravelry)
snowman: also made by me from two snowballs. :P
photo: actually taken by my hubby.
Apparently this photo has appeared on the flickr blog (I wondered where all those views were coming from)! Thanks for stopping by!
CATALÀ
Pulmonària (Pulmonaria) és un gènere de plantes amb flors dins la família Boraginaceae.
És originària d'Europa i oest d'Àsia, amb una sola espècie (Pulmonaria mollissima) de l'Àsia Central.
Aproximadament hi ha entre 10 i 18 espècies dins aquest gènere. La indeterminació és alta perquè és un gènere amb una taxonomia difícil.
Les plantes del gènere Pulmonària són herbàcies perennes que formen grups de rosetes basals. Estan cobertes de pilositat. Les flors, que estan dalt d'una tija simple, formen una inflorescència en cima escorpioide (en forma d'escorpí) i el fruit és una núcula.
ENGLISH
Pulmonaria (lungwort) is a genus of flowering plants in the family Boraginaceae, native to Europe and western Asia, with one species (P. mollissima) east to central Asia. According to various estimates there may be between 10 and 18 species found in the wild.
The inflorescence is a terminal scorpioid cyme as a cymose corymb, with bracts, on short pedicels (stalks), reaching just above the foliage.[2] The flowers are heterostylous, with two distinct forms of flower within each species; those with short stamens and long styles ("pin" flowers) and those with long stamens and short styles ("thrum" flowers), with the former usually being larger and more showy. The calyx is hairy, 5-lobed, tubular or funnel-shaped, enlarging as the fruit ripens. The corolla is funnel-shaped and consists of a long, cylindrical tube and a limb with five shallow lobes. Within the corolla throat, five tufts of hairs alternate with the stamens to form a ring. The colour of the corolla varies from purple, violet or blue to shades of pink and red, or sometimes white. The colour of the flower in bud is often pink to violet when they first emerge, which then changes to blue as the flower matures.[2] The stamens and style are included within the corolla and not protruding.
The nutlets are smooth, egg-shaped, brownish, up to 4.5 mm (0.2 in) long and 3 mm (0.1 in) wide, each containing a single seed. Up to four nutlets per flower are produced, ripening mostly in summer.
FRANÇAIS
La pulmonaire semblable (Pulmonaria affinis) est une espèce de plante herbacée appartenant à la famille des Boraginaceae et au genre Pulmonaria. Comme d'autres espèces du même genre, on la reconnaît d'abord à ses feuilles vertes maculées de blanc et à ses petites fleurs en entonnoir, qui passent du rose au bleu à mesure qu'elles se développent. Assez localisée, on la rencontre dans les Pyrénées et le Massif central, plus rarement dans les Alpes méridionales, l'extrême limite septentrionale de son aire de répartition étant le sud du département de la Haute-Marne.
WIKIPEDIA
Conceived in the passionate autunno caldo of 1938, i was born to spit up the shellac of Latin on my fetal tongue.
Maman, my great Maman, thrust me from her flesh cradle with an emphasis of her thick Haitian thighs - into the cool, patient fisherman-calloused hands on mon papa. As he swatted my tiny empennage, he tenderly hushed my blither with the sweet fermented rine of a melon, and by the setting of my first Caribbean sun, Maman was cooing delicious vodoun fables in time with the lazy metronome of her steel drum rocker. "What a
terrible baby you are, shaking inside your mama's belly like a Carnival boy; my insides are an atelier, not a dance hall...'
I passed years like stalks of field cane (striaght and sweet and green) wrapping my child-body in a naked pastiche of creole jazz, muddy-ankle football, and the innocent sexuality of rhythm. Lazy days of cacao and calico were spent on the fetid foreshore of our village unraveling papa's gnarled fly-nets; while the humid python-winding nights were swallowed by the pulsing rapture of cheap cane rum and the tongue-on-skin throng of voudon arousal. When the sun calmed the winds, mon papa would let me steer the skiff to the fishing beds; as he ate his supper bread and sipped grape wine, I would stand on the tenuous bow of the boat and wave to the far inching trawlers and fattened cargo-ships. I have the memories of a scattered, but happy, diarist; poplin-rough Sunday school clothes and the gangly flush of pubescence, maman's unnerving truth serum stare and the droning lisp of our beetle-faced cure'...and when my lean body first began to yearn for the wettened loggia of a woman's legs,
I was awkwardly depulced by the silly youngest daughter of a wild tonton-man, who though she was a few years beneath me wanted only to mustang-ride on top of me.
Haiti is a violent wealth of color cloistered in a vault of shadows; a green and grise' catafalque bedecked with bright ribbons and gimcrack liturgies, big generals, and little girls, a lethal coup poudre potion mixed in a cardinal-purple zuchetto - once, in the citron mist of waking, Maman mumbled, 'Come here children...come inside, my house is warm, I will feed you...'
A man will attempt to run from the mange of furies that burrow into his pores, but the Haiti-man alone can drown his vermin in the dank, muscular suffocation of his black magic voudon. It is a carnal intercourse of spine and cortex, making love in a large wrought-iron washtub, hand-bathed in a rotgut sweat of fermented slave tears and corrupt eucharist wine - by the naked hands of writing and coming, which have submitted their strong backs to the raw dictatorship of fear and adoration. Mon papa, tapping his inert, Papa-Doc old boat engine with a scarred bonig knife, said, voudon is like a magic carburetor, mixing an explosive solution of Haitian blood and spirit breath - a glazed smile for his own wit; and then, in a guarded sotto-voce, he whispered as beaten men do, 'Maman...has a great lord sleeping inside her breasts, and when he awakes...he treats her to a powerful feast; she can tell the future and smell your lies, bottle your ti bon ange soul in a gas can if she feels like it, or even make a man's backbone shake like a dying jellyfish...be afraid of Maman, but love her well.' Year later, Maman in her chicory-scented pinafore, rolled with laughter when I retold what our late papa had said. "That man...I miss his simple grin and his slow hands...Tonight we will dance for him; you, who fed on the outside of my breasts, and my 'great lord' who is suckling inside them. Papa will smile, no?'
At Pentacost, when the pursed black lips of the green island hummed dark Catholic hymns, I would pilgrimage off to the eastern most Dominican tip of the island and imagine that I could see past the scattered lily isles of the soul-bayou Caribbean over the ungenial Atlantique and onto the gelid farshore of Europe; meditating, scrutinizing over the gendarme-sneer of the French or even the gaspacho-gold face of the
Spanairds. The Europeans fascinate me. I can picture the finger-tip calculations of the the captivated servant trying to understand how to climb the stairs between himself and the master, yet they fascinate me more because their paths have been so intricately woven with ours. They branded us with their perversion of Christianity and salved the wounds with whiplashes; we are the gross-deformed bastard-cattle brood of Europa, who abandoned us we she learned that are too stong too die, yet simple enough to decay. I remember a rumor of a blade-quarted Paris-dandy who drank riotous amounts of cognac in the company of a grand Tonton Macoute and then quipped with a sodomist's tongue, 'Ce country is manque'...ha, an unfinished sewer, smell it ! That odor can only be from an ulcerous wound...'I must laugh here. I know that what we are must scare them; the alieness of our revery, the scathing depth of our intensity, the human-bright colors
of violence and treachery that we parade upon our chests like the general's ribbons. Maman said that all the European men should be cooked a bit longer 'their bellies are too tender, they cannot stomach the face-up-close crimes that we can commit - they were built for killing anonymously - big missiles, bureaucracies, and world wars; they dont have the pride of naked resolve to stare into the crevices of a man's eyes and wrest out his soul...Put them in my belly. I will cook them a little more, make 'em more real." Would terrify you? The too intimate suffocation of a bokor queen's flesh womb, gaging blind in a solution of her great lord's semen and the belly-warm blood of sa mare, ma mere? You would be forced to gape with boarding -school eyes upon a blistering fantastique that mocks your swollen insolence. Mind, you can frighten me too; I would be scared beyond myself if I were staked naked between the trenches of Sommes. Pardon me, I do not hate the European gens, but scrutinizing them is like the thick frustration of a child learning to somersault; one day, when my mind is beyond intrigue though, I will roll over my preoccupied thoughts of them as if a playful steel drum rolled down a steep hill.'Voudon is the religion of the cerebellum, an allegro-alfresco celebration of the primal mind that perches beneath the tangled fugue of the forebrain like a trap-door spider. As night chars the canvas of day, the Haiti people start to breathe more freely. We smile with the heady anticipation of an addict carressing a loaded needle in the moments that the sugar cane torches flickr alive and finger drums begin to rumble from rickety porches. I remember the creeping euphoria of feeling my skull becoming light and translucent, the intravenous drip of human alkaloids saturating my veins and vertebrae as the id of my passions secreted a narcotic sweat of expectation. You feel the itch of a nine-month pregnancy, the salavation of salvation...'
The angelus bells of the bokor draw us to their back-yard shacks, which they decorate in a whirl of colorful ideograms and homemade fetishes. Shirts undone and hemlines gathered up, bony chests and weathered chapeaux, we congregate like a brazen cabal, our tongues wagging in chirping mouths for the festivities to begin, to shed our sulking skin and dance nude in a soothing embrocation. Maman was a great bokor. She carried an infectious air of ebullience and pride, as if her eyes were saying can you believe that great things we will do tonight? She would enter the room with a corset of flunkies and a flowing train of petitioners; her hands touching the face of everyone present, laughing and smiling with them. She became a warm-blooded nucleus of a slowly, spiraling galaxy of children, she was Maman to everyone now. Here they called her La Chantelaine, mistress of the house.
The walls of the hovel, brown and tin and worn, would shake and quiver in the pulsing thrum of the swaying, wailing women and the driving beat of the drums. We danced in groups and couples and alone, smiling like pristine simpletons, letting the rhythm knead into us like a masseur's hands. Music is the riding rein of the soul; and the ever-rapid beat of our rhythms echo off the deepest ravines of our psyche, guiding the traveller inwards, through the dense strata of sharks of the upper brain, down into the cradle of the brain stem, where impulse and intuition are as inseperable as wave and light once were, pain and pleasure, sea and sun, woman and man. While voudon is the horse that carries us within, it has a deeper brilliance - the fierce embrace of total submission - as if a man who makes loves to his adored woman, his flaring tongue alive in the passion of realizing that he can go nowhere but inside his lover; he submits himself to the exploration of her depths, his body only a caisson, his soul a conspirator addcited to the narcosis of pilgrimaging inside the body of her spirituality. We, as a people, venture further in the bracing womb of archetypes, deeper into the mythic, yet nascent body of the great child unborn, than of any other people who can serioulsy claim to burrow into the flesh of understanding. Mon papa said we are dogs who can find their way home across a wild sea. This is true - we are suffering children who toil for penury, who sink in a slow misery - but it just may be us who will be blessed by the tears of Allah before the Mohamedans, our forgiving lips alone upon the weeping wound of Christ. I am not saying we are holier than you, only that we are much more human; our sins and sorrows are heavier weights upon our necks as we leap into the blue sea... You should pardon me when i gibber like this; in these later years I am learning to appreciate the breadth of my life, I no longer dwell upon its serated seams but adore the entire panorama; at times, my tongue is slower than my awe.
With the fear of crashing the crescendo of this story, I must tell you that I left behind my island of voudon dolls and emmigrated to the alleys of Paris. Maman died, poisoned. Papa was long dead, exhaustion. The Tonton Macoute wanted to cripple the informal oligarchy of the voudon queens; they would have snapped my back to break our lineage. I was forewarned with the brutality of Haitian subtlety; a black-painted disembowled kitten tossed on my doorstep like a newspaper (Maman was La Chantelaine, they teasingly called me Le Chat) and then after the swelter of a frightened week, they set fire to our house, to papa's old boat, to Maman's back-yard shack... I cried like an unsoothable baby until I reached the skirts of Port-Au-Prince, where I cleaned bilges on an Indochinese freighter for passage to France. I had no papers, no authorization. All I remember of the voyage were the long, rolling waves of fever that slept in my chest like a nervous rattlesnake. In Marseilles I stole down the anchorline of the ship and swam across the chilled harbor until I felt the sand bottom of beach under my feet, and then i melted into the city. After a month or so, I fell into the gravity of Paris.
There are many Haitians here, some wealthy, most nor. They showed me how to bribe the flic-policemen and to temper my slurring patois so its didnt hurt the sensitive ears of Paris. I found a cab to drive at night and a ten-body room to sleep in during the day. I stumbled into Saint-Germain one afternoon and drank coffee with a gabbing clique of student . They were amazed by the stories I told, probably found them charming, distracting. In return they gave me access to libraries and lectures and new thoughts. My mind seemed to grow from weeds into gardens. I began to write, paint a bit, make love to women in dusk-empty parks. I felt as if I were a cave dweller climbing foreign but delicious alps, shocked by the brightness of the sun and the limitless expanse of the sky.I learned to fish with a rod and reel. Some weekends I drop a line into the dirty Seine and ponder, my line bobbing for memories. When I think of my Haiti I cannot remember the people of the homes, they are like dry parchment paper, rather I see the cumulous balls of smoke lifting from papa's rosewood pipe or I smell the acrid resin of boiled candle wax and chicken entrails slipping from Maman's alchemist kitchen. More, I can still feel the reassuring constriction of voudon about my torso and tongue, as if i had been sewed into a new skin, one more alive, more luxuriant, more spohisticated than my own. Voudon made me fraternal brother of the gut; I lived like a wise homunculous, wild and alive, in the stomach of the human conspiracy. I know the grinding contortions of our hungers and the soothing coolness of our waters. My thoughts were simple peasants, knowing only the autocracy of impulse and the heady musk of desire. And on this far shore from my birth, I have discoverd that Time is like a scribbled blackboard running the breadth of your life, ever reteaching you lessons and exercises that you forgot or never understood. Now, living in the brilliantly glib pages of Paris, I have been given the luxury of contemplative distance to strip my ideology of voudon of its cosmologies and mythos, a sculptor leaning back for perspective, whitened chisel in hand. As if an elder son returning home to hold a father he can now better understand, I embrace voudon for its raw uniqueness, its power to shape our fears and tears back into a primordial clay, allowing us to reenact the passion drama of life and self-creation and death. While I am happy that no horsemen can ride my back now, I wince for children who can never escape from the gnawing brutality of fearing a lonely breathless night or who shirk form staring into the sun, never being able to spit up the bland, anonymous shellac of Latin upon their tongues.
This is the only kind of photo I want to take, right now. I want to be at the beach every day and futz around in the water with a camera in my hand while the afternoon light makes all my shots better than they would normally be.
I think it's something to do with having taken up surfing, my relationship to the beach has done a complete 180. Hated the sand, the water, the distance, the difficulty getting an evenly-lit shot.
Now I get pissy if I go more than two days without being in the ocean, I'm sitting on my board for ten minute stretches watching dolphins swim near shore, I insist on taking my shoes off when I'm shooting at the beach so I can stand in the surf, and the lighting is never anything but a gleeful challenge.
All these years there was a surf bum in me, just waiting to come out. All it took was actually getting out into the water, spending some real time sitting on a board, contemplating it all, learning to read the waves, get used to being on the water, feeling the thrum of the ocean underneath me, experiencing the thrill of standing on a wave while it propels me towards the shore.
Suppose I should start learning to rob banks, next...
Took some pictures at the Farmer's Market, yesterday...probably the first time since the pandemic started I've photographed someone while in a crowded place...and...I don't like it, anymore!
My relationship to public spaces has changed A LOT, guess it only three years of photographing people in isolated places to rob me of my "operating in public places" armor.
I found it distracting, my subject found it distracting. I longed for a situation like this one with Julya, sure there were cars driving by, but with the thrum of traffic and the howl of the wind, it felt like we were all alone, up there.
I probably would've preferred setting up at my subject's home...but it's probably been half a decade since I've done that. Feels almost too intimate, and I prefer being able to walk around if the environment isn't working in the viewfinder.
But, of course, despite the discomfort and the distractions, we ended up with some good photos. The biggest problem was that I was a bit too involved in the actual conversation, probably could've taken a few more pictures. A fine problem to have.
A Canterbury Tale - Dreadzone
There are more ways than one of getting close to your ancestors.
Follow the old road, and as you walk, think of them and of the old England.
You’re only seeing what their eye saw. Ford the same rivers.
The same birds are singing.
When you lie flat on your back and rest, and watch the clouds sailing, as I often do, you're so close to those other people, that you can hear the thrumming of the hoofs of their horses, and the sound of the wheels on the road, and their laughter and talk, and the music of the instruments they carried.
The red rose cries, She is near
And the white rose weeps, She is late
The larkspur listens, I hear
And the lily whispers, I wait
The red rose cries, She is near
And the white rose weeps, She is late
The larkspur listens, I hear
And the lily whispers, I wait
What I’d give to grow old in a place like this….
I've been to this spot before. Probably a hundred or more. Always on a mountain bike climbing the never-ending hills, I knew this was a beautiful spot. It was early when I got there. The sounds of the waking city reverberated off the hills - someone starting a car, the thrum of the urban river. A dog barking. The slightest hint of a hundred eggs and sizzling bacon in a hot pan. Or maybe I was hungry. Like most mountain / urban interfaces there are man-made objects all around - power lines, pump stations and access roads. I stepped off the trail, framed the shot, and waited for the sun.
The ways wind around the hills and dales, they traverse valleys and encounter peaks and pinnacles always all ways lead one to the other and back around to The Mother. Gaia if you will and Gaia if you won’t, the Earth is alive we are part of the paths that litter and loiter, that picnic and pollute and in all of our ways to some we are unfulfilling her ways. Pre-determinate and Post-freewill the routes are taken and they form a language written and spoken, played out to the fall of feet and reverberated into the living thrumming beat.
the fresh forged face within the flame
found flickering forever in the frame
© PHH Sykes 2024
phhsykes@gmail.com
these tulips lasted quite a while, looked good even at the end when I finally chucked them in the green bin yesterday. I'll have to get some more today when I go out grocery shopping.
So the sun is shining today, Georgina is grooming herself on a shelf in front of an open window where the thrum of dual lawnmowers is serenading the neighbourhood ... and I also just heard chickadees. Another day begins, nothing exciting on the agenda, just everyday life ... isn't it lovely eh.
listening to Bill Withers singing "Lovely Day"
Napier Deltic D9003 Meld thrums across Brunswych Jct on a driver familiarisation run prior to the forthcoming diesel gala
Done in Ai, Finalized in Photoshop.
From the edge of realms where light dies and magic devours itself, rises Velarix — Firstborn of the Amethyst Crucible, Queen of the Ninth Pyre. Her armor is wrought from violet wyrmscale and voidglass, barbed and plated in ever-shifting prismatic hues, as if the cosmos themselves coalesced around her flesh.
A radiant dragonstone core glows at her chest, thrumming with pulsar-born energy — the last shard of a fallen star dragon’s heart. Her crown, fused with her helm, erupts into jagged, symmetrical horns — part flame, part obsidian. From behind her, vast wings unfurl like veils of dying nebulae, casting shadow and ultraviolet light across all who dare meet her gaze.
Her eyes are starlight weaponized: not windows to her soul, but warnings of a fury few have survived. She speaks in silence. She commands without breath. And when her power stirs, entire timelines fracture in her wake.
The Eldrial Vale
Beneath an immeasurable sky, where clouds drifted like phantoms across a fathomless blue, the Eldrial Vale unfurled in solemn majesty. It was a place where time thickened, suspended between memory and forgetting. On either side, mountains loomed — their peaks scarred by lingering ice, white veins against weathered rock — watching all with an indifference carved by millennia. Forests of ancient trees draped their dark canopies down the slopes, their depths murmuring secrets to winds that slipped through the branches like unseen messengers.
A river, impossibly clear, wound its way through the valley’s heart, glinting like liquid glass drawn by an unseen hand. It wove intricate, unhurried arcs through the meadowlands, as if contemplating its own course. The water whispered across pebbles smoothed by the ages, its sound a language older than thought. There was a kind of sentience to its flow, a knowing grace that made the air around it feel charged — as though the very earth held its breath.
The valley floor stretched out, a wild expanse of mossy greens and russet grasses, interrupted by boulders tossed carelessly in some forgotten upheaval. Wildflowers, brilliant yet shy, clung to the edges of this fractured land, their delicate petals trembling beneath the weight of the sun’s late morning gaze. The air was dense with the scent of damp loam, cool stone, and distant water — a mingling of fragrances so subtle they bordered on memory.
It was a landscape that held itself apart, poised between serenity and unease. A stillness laced with tension, as though the land teetered on the brink of revelation. Here, beauty did not simply exist; it watched. The mountains neither welcomed nor forbade, their silence stretched taut, a canvas awaiting meaning. The river did not merely travel — it remembered, its path carved not just through rock, but through forgotten tales and unspoken longings.
Beyond the narrowing of the vale, where shadows braided themselves into the light, lay the passage into wilder realms. The valley's edges blurred, boundaries fading into uncertainty. Each step forward felt like a question pressed into the earth. And in that space between known and unknown, sunlight seemed to flicker, hesitant yet resolute — as though the world itself was deciding whether to unveil or obscure.
To stand here was to feel the enormity of stories untold, the ache of things almost remembered. The air thrummed with a quiet, dissonant music, vibrating with a tension that refused to resolve. The stones, the water, the wind — they all seemed to pause, expectant, holding within them the possibility of revelation or retreat.
This was Eldrial: a place where the world tilted ever so slightly, unsettling in its beauty, magnetic in its mystery — an edge between what was and what might yet be.
--------------------------------------
To wander these landscapes, whether in vision or in thought, is to touch a fragment of that boundless wonder. If the whisper of this vale calls to you, let your journey continue beyond these words. Discover more visions of untamed places and stories held in light and language at www.coronaviking.com — where the world awaits, ready to be seen anew.
--------------------------------------
Real Location: Routeburn Valley North in New Zealand's Southern Alps
CATALÀ
Pulmonària (Pulmonaria) és un gènere de plantes amb flors dins la família Boraginaceae.
És originària d'Europa i oest d'Àsia, amb una sola espècie (Pulmonaria mollissima) de l'Àsia Central.
Aproximadament hi ha entre 10 i 18 espècies dins aquest gènere. La indeterminació és alta perquè és un gènere amb una taxonomia difícil.
Les plantes del gènere Pulmonària són herbàcies perennes que formen grups de rosetes basals. Estan cobertes de pilositat. Les flors, que estan dalt d'una tija simple, formen una inflorescència en cima escorpioide (en forma d'escorpí) i el fruit és una núcula.
ENGLISH
Pulmonaria (lungwort) is a genus of flowering plants in the family Boraginaceae, native to Europe and western Asia, with one species (P. mollissima) east to central Asia. According to various estimates there may be between 10 and 18 species found in the wild.
The inflorescence is a terminal scorpioid cyme as a cymose corymb, with bracts, on short pedicels (stalks), reaching just above the foliage.[2] The flowers are heterostylous, with two distinct forms of flower within each species; those with short stamens and long styles ("pin" flowers) and those with long stamens and short styles ("thrum" flowers), with the former usually being larger and more showy. The calyx is hairy, 5-lobed, tubular or funnel-shaped, enlarging as the fruit ripens. The corolla is funnel-shaped and consists of a long, cylindrical tube and a limb with five shallow lobes. Within the corolla throat, five tufts of hairs alternate with the stamens to form a ring. The colour of the corolla varies from purple, violet or blue to shades of pink and red, or sometimes white. The colour of the flower in bud is often pink to violet when they first emerge, which then changes to blue as the flower matures.[2] The stamens and style are included within the corolla and not protruding.
The nutlets are smooth, egg-shaped, brownish, up to 4.5 mm (0.2 in) long and 3 mm (0.1 in) wide, each containing a single seed. Up to four nutlets per flower are produced, ripening mostly in summer.
FRANÇAIS
La pulmonaire semblable (Pulmonaria affinis) est une espèce de plante herbacée appartenant à la famille des Boraginaceae et au genre Pulmonaria. Comme d'autres espèces du même genre, on la reconnaît d'abord à ses feuilles vertes maculées de blanc et à ses petites fleurs en entonnoir, qui passent du rose au bleu à mesure qu'elles se développent. Assez localisée, on la rencontre dans les Pyrénées et le Massif central, plus rarement dans les Alpes méridionales, l'extrême limite septentrionale de son aire de répartition étant le sud du département de la Haute-Marne.
WIKIPEDIA
I've shot at this spot many a time, but never have I found it as loud and impossible to communicate as last week, with Julya.
Traffic wasn't crazy heavy, but the thrum was all but impenetrable, so I mainly resorted to gestures, shaking my hips when I wanted her to move around or smile, moving my hands like a conductor when I wanted her to adjust her pose.
With someone new, it would've been...difficult. But Julya and I have shot together a bunch, got it down, the shorthand worked excellently...but I couldn't help but lament not being able to chat more. Chatting's part of the fun! I'm a kibitzer!
But I got home, saw this shot...I'll kibitz next time.
People have lived on this site in Stainborough since the Iron Age. The remains of a now much disguised hillfort lies under the 18th century folly on the hilltop. Following the Norman Conquest, the lands were owned by the De Lacey’s. In the mid 13th Century it was owned by the Everingham family, who sold it to the Cutlers in 1610.
Wentworth Castle is an estate born of a bitter family feud. When Thomas Wentworth’s expectations of inheriting nearby Wentworth Woodhouse were dashed in 1695, he bought Stainborough Hall, some seven miles to the north in 1708 and began to create a house and gardens to rival his usurper, changing its name to Wentworth Castle.
His son William inherited the estate in 1739 and carried on his father’s work – and his feud.
Years of neglect and decline have seen the landscaped park partially return to nature. An early 21st century project has partially regenerated the gardens and parkland, halting the decline, but there are still decaying remnants to be found of the park’s former glory. This corner of the estate, now woodland inhabited by deer was once a series of ponds, overlooked by the neo-classical rotunda based on the Temple of Tivoli. The ruins of retaining walls and sluice gates can still be found and in wet winters, the ponds still hold a little water.
On a summer evening, when the warm air is full of the sound of deer fawns playing in the long grass, Stainborough Park is a magical place. It is possible to be transported to a place apart from the modern world, if you can zone-out from the background thrum of the nearby M1.
For gods sake he pleaded, His eyes wide and full of need,
My lip twitched as I hesitated and grinned, "My sweet boy, you have such greed"
My fingers caressed his bare skin, I could hear his heart thrumming to a heavy beat,
My hand slid down to his zipper, My eyes shut as I slid down to his feet,
The tug of his button so easy, The rip of his zipper Heard Next,
my fingers linking the pant loops and tugging, He willfully fell back as the room eerily screamed sex,
I leaned in and slid the hardness against my cheek, He unintentionally lifted of the bed,
I let out a soft moan like humming, Leaving all other words I was thinking Unsaid,
My tongue dipped out ofmy pouty lips, and swirled against his need,
The sound seemed to intensify his grunting, His feral, appreciated Dire Need,
My soft slim fingers joined the rhythm, as they brought out a Fervor and moan,
He hissed and gripped my silken hair, as his hips jutted as he growled "You are Owned"
A true partner is one who can let you take the lead, Follow it up with appreciation, then pay you in kind with a dirty deed
People have lived on this site in Stainborough since the Iron Age. The remains of a now much disguised hillfort lies under the 18th century folly on the hilltop. Following the Norman Conquest, the lands were owned by the De Lacey’s. In the mid 13th Century it was owned by the Everingham family, who sold it to the Cutlers in 1610.
Wentworth Castle is an estate born of a bitter family feud. When Thomas Wentworth’s expectations of inheriting nearby Wentworth Woodhouse were dashed in 1695, he bought Stainborough Hall, some seven miles to the north in 1708 and began to create a house and gardens to rival his usurper, changing its name to Wentworth Castle.
His son William inherited the estate in 1739 and carried on his father’s work – and his feud.
Years of neglect and decline have seen the landscaped park partially return to nature. An early 21st century project has partially regenerated the gardens and parkland, halting the decline, but there are still decaying remnants to be found of the park’s former glory. This corner of the estate, now woodland inhabited by deer was once a series of ponds, overlooked by the neo-classical rotunda based on the Temple of Tivoli, completed in 1742. The ruins of retaining walls and sluice gates can still be found and in wet winters, the ponds still hold a little water.
On a summer evening, when the warm air is full of the sound of deer fawns playing in the long grass, Stainborough Park is a magical place. It is possible to be transported to a place apart from the modern world, if you can zone-out from the background thrum of the nearby M1.
Coyote is both wily and tough; there is no other way to survive the harsh northern prairie winter. The wind was blowing hard in the first blast of winter when I saw this one, head down, nosing through the prairie dog town. He - or perhaps she, it was impossible to tell - didn't see me at first, the noise of wind drowning the thrum of my car's engine, but then looked up, startled, and broke into a loping run for a few metres before slowing and looking back. I wondered what it must be like to venture outside from a warm den in search of a meal. In that frozen terrain. Yet Coyote manages well, has the tools and smarts to thrive.
He even escapes, sometimes, from the high powered rifles wielded by camo-clad "sportsmen" who think of him as a "varmint" and exercise their legal right to shoot him on sight. These killers are everywhere. Poor excuses for human beings, if you ask me, although nobody has. Well, this is a national park; Coyote can make it if he doesn't stray, if he can resist the temptations of domestic livestock, chickens, and other easy pickings. I loved the eye contact this one gave me, briefly, as I shot with my telephoto from the shelter of a rolling red blind, aka 2015 Toyota Corolla. Avoid my species, Coyote! Live long and prosper!
Photographed in Grasslands National Park, Saskatchewan (Canada). Don't use this image on websites, blogs, or other media without explicit permission © 2018 James R. Page - all rights reserved.
You will never be alone, you hear so deep
a sound when autumn comes. Yellow
pulls across the hills and thrums,
or the silence after lightning before it says
its names - and then the clouds’ wide-mouthed
apologies. You were aimed from birth:
you will never be alone. Rain
will come, a gutter filled, and Amazon,
long aisles - you never heard so deep a sound,
moss on rock, and years.
You turn your head -
that’s what the silence meant: you are not alone.
The whole wide world pours down.
- William Stafford
Crimson Rift: Echoes Through the Void
Digital Abstract | Gregory Scott
An eruption of jagged light slices through a field of infinite black — this piece thrums with the energy of a universe mid-birth or mid-collapse. "Crimson Rift" explores the delicate threshold between chaos and creation, where color fractures like soundwaves and emotion courses like plasma.
Each razor-edged tendril seems to echo an unseen force — a scream, a memory, a revelation — suspended in timeless space. Neon filaments pulse with urgency, suggesting a moment frozen on the edge of transformation.
Simultaneously cosmic and internal, this work invites viewers to step into the void — not to be lost, but to listen to the echoes and perhaps discover what stirs in their own silence.
---GSP
People have lived on this site in Stainborough since the Iron Age. The remains of a now much disguised hillfort lies under the 18th century folly on the hilltop. Following the Norman Conquest, the lands were owned by the De Lacey’s. In the mid 13th Century it was owned by the Everingham family, who sold it to the Cutlers in 1610.
Wentworth Castle is an estate born of a bitter family feud. When Thomas Wentworth’s expectations of inheriting nearby Wentworth Woodhouse were dashed in 1695, he bought Stainborough Hall, some seven miles to the north in 1708 and began to create a house and gardens to rival his usurper, changing its name to Wentworth Castle.
His son William inherited the estate in 1739 and carried on his father’s work – and his feud.
Years of neglect and decline have seen the landscaped park partially return to nature. An early 21st century project has partially regenerated the gardens and parkland, halting the decline, but there are still decaying remnants to be found of the park’s former glory. This corner of the estate, now woodland inhabited by deer was once a series of ponds, overlooked by the neo-classical rotunda based on the Temple of Tivoli, completed in 1742. The ruins of retaining walls and sluice gates can still be found and in wet winters, the ponds still hold a little water.
On a summer evening, when the warm air is full of the sound of deer fawns playing in the long grass, Stainborough Park is a magical place. It is possible to be transported to a place apart from the modern world, if you can zone-out from the background thrum of the nearby M1.
in the belly of munich, the marienplatz underground station thrums with the rhythm of the city. commuters flow through the arteries of the metro, each a cell in the organism of urban life. fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow on tiles and posters, illuminating scenes of mundane beauty. a man adjusts his hair, a silent ballet against the backdrop of motion and stillness, a microcosm of city life captured in a fleeting moment of self-reflection amidst the daily dance of the commute.
^^
Paseo Alcalde Marqués del Contadero, Sevilla
. . . ¡Oh Diana, Diana, Diana vacía!
Convexa resonancia donde la abeja se vuelve loca.
Mi amor es paso, tránsito, larga muerte gustada,
nunca la piel ilesa de tu desnudo huido.
. . . Oh Diana, Diana, unmovable Diana!
Thrum of bow where bees are driven mad.
My love is footstep, passage, long luscious death,
never the virgin flesh of your nakedness in flight.
- Federico García Lorca (from Tierra y luna; my translation)
In the dead of night the resonance of a ship's engine is unmistakable as it tries to displace tonnes of water and propel the vessel from dock through harbour to open water and beyond. What's not so obvious is exactly when the vessel is going to appear from behind the buildings that obscure your view.
This night it took maybe ten minutes of waiting from the first low frequency thrumming until the point I opened the shutter to capture the ship coming into frame from the right. Nearly a full three minutes later the shutter closed, as the last of the ship's lights disappeared from view.
Amidst the reflections on the water it's difficult to tell just how the dome arrived at its location but my guess is it didn't take too kindly to sea travel.
More on flickr:
And elsewhere:
And now the pain is gone
Or at least my ability
To sense it has been blocked
By chemicals:
Small white round hard lumps of pharmaceuticals
Swallowed dry
Reluctant little troops sent in to battle the blaze.
They have been precision trained
In laboratories
In double blind studies.
They follow orders. Coat the brain
and nerve endings; dull the sick searing pain.
But, as in all war
There is collateral damage.
The victim, the patient, the land freed from tyranny
Is left a hollow barren desert.
Thoughts thrum and vibrate
But cannot quite push through the pharmaceutical membrane.
Fingers, hands, shoulders, head
Shake
As if palsied.
Everything is slow
And the light is at once too bright
And too dim; objects are silhouettes
Strange things swirl
And the brain loops, soars, swims, rises like an overfilled balloon
Then collapses.
Knees, legs, feet tingle
Swell
Feel detached
Is that the ground? Or... no.
Just the thought of it
Just the work of phantoms, of ghosts.
And through the soupy haze, the imperative:
Work.
Read, comprehend, discuss, analyze, translate.
Intuit. Slice, carve. De-bone. Flay.
Lay bare meaning.
And do it all by instinct
Because it is too dark, too murky, too swirly and soupy and shaky-slow
In here to really see.
By the light of the moon, she had drawn her circles around the perimeter of the glade, three concentric circles with 13 long paces between each. She then opened her weave connection, layering magical wards within each circle to deter unwanted guests from her home. The first circle was designed to create confusion; a gnawing sense that "You are going the wrong way." Should the intruder breech the 2nd circle, each step would seem to suck the breath from their lung, choking the air from their body the further forward they progressed. The third ward was a current of intense tingling pain, almost like a lightening bolt racing through the body, keeping one on the edge of consciousness and thrumming with burning agony, subsiding only upon retreat. Her glade now thricely protected, she whispered the names of friends and loved ones into the spell, granting them protection from the menacing wards.
The va vroom of the engine purring between my thighs, chasing along far reaching roads a twist a turning. The horizon captured in the foresight, the rest a wash in fading sight. Wind swept hair rides the sun offering my skin that golden thrum.
There were hundreds of Chaffinches at this location - listening to the thrum of their wingbeats when they took off en masse was beautiful.
I was camping at Keswick, in the Lake District recently, and one evening heared the distant thrum of engines. On the off chance that it was something interesting, I sprinted to the car, sprinted back to the tent for the keys, then back to the car to retrieve the trusty Nikon from the boot. Fortunately, the 'plane in question, (which only diffidence in trusting my identifying skills prevent me from naming as a Hercules), came almost directly overhead, and at a very modest altitude, so that I was able to blat off three or four shots. A flight of birds, going in the opposite direction, and much neared ground level, made for an interesting composition.
Camera: Nikon F5
Lens: Nikkor 28-80mm zoom
Film: Kodak Ektar 100
The mid-60s Batman TV series often used back-projection to depict an urban setting as the Batmobile thrummed through. Usually, the footage was from 1950s/early 1960s New York City (it looks to me), but, in a fleeting night scene in one episode, I was bewildered when I noticed what appeared to be German company names lit up in neon in the background. With the help of Google, the avenue that was used here as a stand-in for Gotham/New York City looks to be Tauentzienstrasse in the Charlottenburg district of what was then called West Berlin during the Cold War. The Royal Palast movie theater at rear left opened in 1965. #batman66 #dynamicduo #batmobile #berlin #westberlin #coldwar
This rarely seen moth hung around just long enough fo me to get this shot, before it thrummed away noisily into the undergrowth
Morning light through trees at Stainborough Park.
People have lived on this site in Stainborough since the Iron Age. The remains of a now much disguised hillfort lies under the 18th century folly on the hilltop. Following the Norman Conquest, the lands were owned by the De Lacey’s. In the mid 13th Century it was owned by the Everingham family, who sold it to the Cutlers in 1610.
Wentworth Castle is an estate born of a bitter family feud. When Thomas Wentworth’s expectations of inheriting nearby Wentworth Woodhouse were dashed in 1695, he bought Stainborough Hall, some seven miles to the north in 1708 and began to create a house and gardens to rival his usurper, changing its name to Wentworth Castle.
His son William inherited the estate in 1739 and carried on his father’s work – and his feud.
Years of neglect and decline have seen the landscaped park partially return to nature. An early 21st century project has partially regenerated the gardens and parkland, halting the decline, but there are still decaying remnants to be found of the park’s former glory. This corner of the estate, now woodland inhabited by deer was once a series of ponds, overlooked by the neo-classical rotunda based on the Temple of Tivoli, completed in 1742. The ruins of retaining walls and sluice gates can still be found and in wet winters, the ponds still hold a little water.
On a summer evening, when the warm air is full of the sound of deer fawns playing in the long grass, Stainborough Park is a magical place. It is possible to be transported to a place apart from the modern world, if you can zone-out from the background thrum of the nearby M1.
The Decision - Initial Hope
The control room, a cavernous space bathed in the cool, bluish glow of countless monitors, hummed with a barely perceptible thrum of power. At the central navigation console, the navigator, a being of advanced cybernetics, stood with an almost sculptural stillness. Her metallic legs, seamlessly integrated with her humanistic representation, gleamed in the ambient light. Her bright blue LED eyes, the only visible indicators of her internal processing, pulsed with a subtle, rhythmic intensity, reflecting the complex data streams flowing across her visual sensors. Her face, a triumph of neuro-holographic engineering, shimmered with a delicate, almost ethereal quality, suggesting a subtle interplay of light and shadow on its refined surface.
The primary navigation display, a massive holographic projection suspended above the console, showed Delta-Nine as a bright, unwavering line, representing their intended trajectory. Yet, a stark contrast dominated the screen: the Necropolis Corridor, a vast, unknown region of space, was depicted as a jagged scar across the galactic map. A cascade of flickering warnings compounded this ominous visual, each red alert signalling insurmountable obstacles and dangerous anomalies.
Amidst this tense atmosphere, Subi AI, her humanistic form rendered with an almost human expression of concern, furrowed her brow. A barely audible whisper, a data packet received through an unmapped, clandestine channel, reached her consciousness. It spoke of an unmapped anomaly, a deviation from all known charts, yet it offered a potential path of survival. This was no ordinary route; it represented a desperate synergy, a confluence of improbable factors that could, against all odds, form their fragile shield against the encroaching void. The stakes were immeasurable, the risks unprecedented, but in the face of inevitable destruction, this whisper, this anomaly, offered the faintest glimmer of hope. The decision now had hope.
Podcast:
www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLXaHuXMcUMrhIzfjKlj9clJCOf...
Playlist:
www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLXaHuXMcUMrgi9Vms3dSNvqYUC...
Blogger:
www.jjfbbennett.com/2025/07/the-decision.html
Tags
#art #Spacestation #scifi #fictionalworld #story #arthouse #futuristic #spaceadventure #Sanctuary #Revitalisation #Retro #art #metaart
People have lived on this site in Stainborough since the Iron Age. The remains of a now much disguised hillfort lies under the 18th century folly on the hilltop. Following the Norman Conquest, the lands were owned by the De Lacey’s. In the mid 13th Century it was owned by the Everingham family, who sold it to the Cutlers in 1610.
Wentworth Castle is an estate born of a bitter family feud. When Thomas Wentworth’s expectations of inheriting nearby Wentworth Woodhouse were dashed in 1695, he bought Stainborough Hall, some seven miles to the north in 1708 and began to create a house and gardens to rival his usurper, changing its name to Wentworth Castle.
His son William inherited the estate in 1739 and carried on his father’s work – and his feud.
Years of neglect and decline have seen the landscaped park partially return to nature. An early 21st century project has partially regenerated the gardens and parkland, halting the decline, but there are still decaying remnants to be found of the park’s former glory.
On a summer evening, when the warm air is full of the sound of deer fawns playing in the long grass, Stainborough Park is a magical place. It is possible to be transported to a place apart from the modern world, if you can zone-out from the background thrum of the nearby M1.
CP A19 coasts down the long section of tangent track between Tarrys and Thrums at a steady 20mph. The lavender in the foreground is very prevalent in this area in the spring and early summer. The train has a large block of ore concentrate destined for the Teck smelter in Trail, as well as centerbeam flats for the Interfor Mill in Castlegar.
Under a star-streaked sky near Concho, Oklahoma, 21-year-old Kody Little Coyote stood tall by the roaring fire, its crackling flames licking the night air. His pow wow regalia gleamed—eagle feathers cascading down his back, their tips swaying as he shifted, and a fringed beaded vest in black and white with red trim hugging his chest, stitched by his grandmother’s steady hands. Streaks of black and white paint outlined his face, marking him as a Cheyenne warrior, his dark eyes reflecting in the firelight like embers.
The drum circle thrummed nearby, a steady pulse that matched his heartbeat, calling the dancers to the arena. Kody's cousin, Little Hawk, had just won the junior fancy dance, and the family’s laughter still echoed in his ears. But here, by the fire, he felt something deeper— the weight of his ancestors, their strength flickering in the flames. He adjusted the porcupine roach atop his head, its quills bristling, and whispered a prayer in Tsêhésenêstsestôtse, the Cheyenne tongue, for courage in tomorrow’s competition. The fire snapped, sending sparks skyward, and Kody smiled faintly—ready to dance his story into the night.
________
AI image created with Elon Musk's Grok3.. Characters and events are fictional.
This will be the first time I've uploaded 2 photos of the same ship, on the same day but using images taken 10 years apart.
I uploaded an earlier pic of this dredger (I have loads more...) this morning, then bravely set forth into the 32 degree heat in the knowledge that City Of Westminster was on its way. By evening, it has been and gone and as I write this it is thrumming down the Thames to Southend Anchorage.
There was quite a lot of traffic today, more dredgers (and in different configurations) and several bulk loaders. And it was terribly hot.
[DSC_3553a]