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In this photo the bulls are nearing the finishing post and they had to turn left to avoid running into the embankment straight ahead.
Looks like this is what is going to happen now. - I mean that the bulls are going straight on to the embankment.
The runner on the left ought to have controlled the bull to make them turn but handling heaving and seething masses of bull power running in the mud is not at all easy.
The people are already scattering and running for cover. Not to miss the vidographer in the lungi who is recording the run.
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Adoor in Kerala holds its famous Bull Races every year around the time of Onam. It is a celebration of agrarian existence and is carried on without any grants or aid from the Government. This is a spectacular fiesta of rural Kerala. There are 2-3 other such events that are held in Kerala.
Two racing bulls are hitched together and three men come into action. Two racers with lead ropes on either side of the bulls who try to control the direction and speed if possible and one often obscured by sprays of mud and water, a jockey who rides on a small flat strip of wood.
The bulls race ahead with the men keeping desperately abreast of the thundering hooves. At the end of the racing track there is a 4-6 feet embankment of earth which acts as a protection and a marker for the bulls. The embankment gets totally crowded with onlookers. The bull racers need to turn the bull around and do a 360 degree here but most times that effort fails as the bulls in their racing frenzy would be uncontrollable.
I have no idea on the current status of the bull races. There are enough organisations howling to stop such races but the Supreme Court of India in a judgement a few months ago allowed bull/bullock cart races to go on in Punjab. So chances are that the tradition may still live on.
Dates
Taken on August 15, 2007 at 1.16pm IST (edit)
Posted to Flickr September 20, 2012 at 11.55AM IST (edit)
Exif data
Camera Nikon D70
Exposure 0.001 sec (1/1000)
Aperture f/4.0
Focal Length 70 mm
ISO Speed 200
Exposure Bias 0 EV
Flash Off, Did not fire
DSC_0380 via ACr
[]Please comment if you favorite[]
Matt walks to the man responsible for his current situation. The man's side is dripping blood from the cut Matt caused. Matt grips the shard of glass in his hand tighter, causing it to cut his hand. As Matt gets less than a foot away from Mister Fear he drops the glass shard. He grabs a gun used to inject chemicals into patient's arms. He grabs a syringe with what Matt can only hope is the very same chemical that Mister Fear injected him with.
"Please, no. Please don't!"
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Look, I'm sorry."
"You should be,"
Matt stabs the needle of the gun into the man's neck and pulls the trigger. The chemical drains from the gun and into the man's body. Seconds pass and the effects of the chemical begin to show. The man drops to the ground and his body begins to shake uncontrollably. Matt breaks the gun in half and drops the pieces to the ground next to the man.
"No! Please! I hate clowns! No, Get Away! Help me!"
Matt turns and begins walking towards the exit of the lab. He thinks back to the things that he saw while under the impression of those chemicals. All his friends turned against him. Matt doesn't focus on the things said, but rather who said it. Foggy and Father Lanton. They are still alive.
Matt stops in his tracks as he senses a figure next to him. Matt sighs as he turns to it, but to his surprise the figure is not a man, but a mannequin. On the mannequin is Matt's Daredevil costume. Matt runs his fingers over the suit and smiles as he runs his fingers over the D's on the chest.
"Please help me!"
Matt grabs the mask and places over his head. He presses a button on the side of the mask and his com buzzes to life.
"Foggy? Are you there?"
"Matt! Oh thank God, I've been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been?"
A tear runs down Matt's cheek as he hears Foggy's voice through the earpiece.
"It's a long story..."
Mirit Ben-Nun’s art exists within and beyond reality. She moves away from reality with aggressive and dense colorfulness which reveals an inner testimony of a threatened existence of women. The lines, points and shapes do not reproduce facts but emphasize the special charge of emotional coping.
Mirit Ben-Nun shows a rebellious spirit and tries to reach out to things not through wholeness but via searching for their expression and manifestation.
She explores personal identity and through it tries to define a complementary art, thereby illustrating the world and the nature of human culture. She focuses on the expressive dimension because of the exposure afforded by the uncontrollable moment that so much affects life in a rapidly changing global world.
The discourse between the inner world and the emerging reality is hyperactive and generates in Ben - Nun an endless sequence of works.
From the depths of feelings, dreams, anxieties and expressions arise rigid and exciting meanings of existence whose essence expresses adaptation difficulties and restlessness.
Dora Woda
Shortly after noon on Friday, June 3, 2016, a Union Pacific a 90+ tank car oil train containing volatile Bakkan oil derailed at Mosier, Oregon in the Columbia Gorge National Scenic Area.
The derailed oil train stretched from the smoke and flames on the west of Mosier to Mosier's far east side. As successive derailed cars burned, they set on fire the next car.
The top inset zoom emphasizes the proximity of the tank cars to the elementary school which was in session that day. The nearest tank car was roughly 500 feet from the school.
We are incredibly lucky that the usual June west winds - which blow 20-40 miles per hour - were absent.
With June high winds fanning flames, an uncontrollable chain reaction of successively exploding tank cars and wild fire might have obliterated the elementary school and town of Mosier.
On July 13, 2016, The Oregonian reported:
"At the time of the derailment, the NTSB, in a move criticized by [Sen.] Wyden at the time, cited a lack of staffing in its decision not to investigate the derailment.
"The agency [NTSB] added that it did not send a team to Mosier because the incident involved no injuries or deaths and because initial findings provided by Union Pacific Railroad, first responders and the Federal Railroad Administration "indicated that the circumstances of this incident did not pose any new significant safety issues."
Wow! Does that mean all of the safety implications were already known and not addressed, or that the new safety issues posed were insignificant? I'm appalled.
LIFE is short.
break the RULES
FORGIVE quickly,
KISS slowly, LOVE truly,
LAUGH uncontrollably,
and NEVER REGRET
anything that made
you SMILE.
Ao fundo Tom Fruin´s Stained Glass House.
Bull Racing in Kerala - Photo 7 - Getting the Bulls under Control
For more photos published earlier have a look here
In this photo, the Bulls are on the other side of the embankment and they would have gone on running but fortunately the bystanders have leapt out of the way and one of the bull racers who happened to be on the emabankment has bravely leapt in and controlled the pair of bulls head on while the actual team is hanging on to the ropes and controlling the rampaging bulls.
Dates
Taken on August 15, 2007 at 1.16pm IST (edit)
Posted to Flickr October 3, 2012 at 4.39PM IST (edit)
Exif data
Camera Nikon D70
Exposure 0.001 sec (1/750)
Aperture f/4.0
Focal Length 70 mm
ISO Speed 200
Exposure Bias 0 EV
DSC_0384 via ACR
-----------------------------------
A backgrounder on the Art of Bull Racing -
Adoor in Kerala holds its famous Bull Races every year around the time of Onam. It is a celebration of agrarian existence and is carried on without any grants or aid from the Government. This is a spectacular fiesta of rural Kerala. There are 2-3 other such events that are held in Kerala.
Two racing bulls are hitched together and three men come into action. Two racers with lead ropes on either side of the bulls who try to control the direction and speed if possible and one often obscured by sprays of mud and water, a jockey who rides on a small flat strip of wood.
The bulls race ahead with the men keeping desperately abreast of the thundering hooves. At the end of the racing track there is a 4-6 feet embankment of earth which acts as a protection and a marker for the bulls. The embankment gets totally crowded with onlookers. The bull racers need to turn the bull around and do a 360 degree here but most times that effort fails as the bulls in their racing frenzy would be uncontrollable.
I did a search on google to find out about the current status of the bull racing in Kerala. The news is heartening. They did hold this event in 2012 and it had only 12 pairs of bulls in the event. There was some mention of court cases etc etc.. ( the interview was in Malayalam). So hopefully we can continue to see this in future. The number of running bulls is a great concern though. There used to be about 50-60 bulls participating in this event. Times are changing.
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315 | 365
“It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.” - Lemony Snicket
**The last song she listened to (And how do I know? Because it was open on her laptop by her bedside): www.youtube.com/watch?v=JYaLhhJswcI
[I don't even know where to begin without just saying it outright: the reason I've been absent is because my mother died. It was sudden, and unexpected, and I am currently lost, and experiencing a sad I never knew existed. My mother was a heavily troubled, beautiful, talented, exceedingly clever, hilarious, and amazing person. (She had an astoundingly green thumb, hence the botany in this image. The poppies indicate her passing--she is forever asleep now.) I can tell you without a shred of doubt that any sort of artistic talent I've been born with is solely due to her. Our relationship was complicated--words simply cannot describe it. Perhaps at some point I'll attempt to quantify it.
This event has thoroughly shaken me. I've discovered an entirely new spectrum of emotions--just when I was certain I'd felt them all. I was notified on Friday, May 17th. She passed away on Wednesday, May 15th. I've been back and forth to California since then, spending every last ounce of energy to console my poor little brother of nine years old, to make arrangements regarding her estate, and to spread some of her ashes into the ocean (me, my older brother, and my younger brother will all be taking the remainder of the ash and planting her ashes in our respective places of residence [I'll be seeking out a proper tree that will flourish in my forest that I frequent]).
You discover rather quickly that you're not really certain whether or not you want to share the horrible news with anybody--because at that point you have to deal with not only your own emotions but theirs as well. You find yourself consoling the people trying to console you. You also find that your tragedy makes others uncomfortable. They may not know what to say or how to react. They may be in shock themselves. Usually there are questions. So many questions. Questions you don't want to answer. You may even find yourself angry at their concern and curiosity.
I cried more in a condensed period of time than I think I have ever cried. I continue to cry. Every day. It comes in waves. Between the overwhelming sadness is a numbness that makes me seem cold and unfeeling. My voice become uncontrollably monotone, and I feel nothing short of utterly empty. I am not the same person I was before this happened. I can say that with absolute confidence.
At this point I can't even tell if this is too much information or too little or whether the sky is blue or whether I will ever overcome this sadness. I have a strong sense that this is a sadness that will never fully leave me. The only thing I know for certain is that I will work even harder to live my dream and honor her memory. You can expect to see many more images inspired by her. And you can expect to hear much more about her. But this is all I can manage right now, today. Baby steps. Not even. Crawling. I am crawling.]
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15/52
listen. listen. listen. www.youtube.com/watch?v=JYaLhhJswcI&noredirect=1
A year ago today I received a phone call informing me that my mother had been found dead in her home. Cause of death was unknown, and it would remain as such for six months from the day I received the news.
I was in the grocery store with a friend when I got the call—I stepped outside at the informant's behest. I was concerned that something might have happened to my much younger brother who lives two states away... When she told me it was my mother, I felt as though I'd been hit by a semi. I crumbled next to a line of grocery carts, the whole world rushing and rumbling around me as I shrank in the agony of those life-changing moments. I sobbed and choked on my own breath. My friend who was with me for a hangout that evening consoled me as my entire world shifted.
I was told that the coroner requested I call him as soon as possible. I took down the phone number and rushed home to make the call. The most difficult phone call of my life to date. I sat myself down at my desk at home, hands shaking, and dialed the number. The man on the other line redelivered the news of my mother's passing to me. His voice was without emotion—a machine. A person who'd seen and heard so much of death that it was as nothing to him aside from fact. He told me she'd passed likely a day or two prior but that they likely wouldn't be able to say when precisely. That she'd gone in her sleep, but that they weren't certain how and wouldn't be able to determine the exact cause of death until receiving samples back that they took...in six months. He told me that a seizure was likely.
When I hung up the phone, I wailed. I cried in a way I had never cried before and have not cried since. It was an uncontrollable surge of deepest sorrow from the core of my heart. My life, my perspective, my understanding of the world and how it works—all of that changed that evening.
In the last five years or so of her life, my mother had begun having seizures, triggered by a lesion in her brain from a parasite contracted from undercooked pork. The seizures were no doubt exacerbated by her ongoing struggle with alcohol. It is undeniable that my mother, strong and beautiful and resilient as she was, was a troubled woman. She struggled her entire life with alcoholism, and later in life was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and obsessive-compulsive disorder. To say her life was difficult would be a monumental understatement.
And yet. Never did a day go by when she didn't pick herself up out of bed and try again. Her life was a whirlwind of heartache and her own self-realized disappointment and sorrow due to her never-ending battle with the addiction.
Later I would be informed that her system was completely clean—not a drop of alcohol in her when she passed. She'd just gotten out of a special treatment program the week prior which she had been raving about. Told me that the program focused on childhood trauma and life issues as opposed to focusing solely on the disease of alcoholism. I hadn't seen her spirits so high in years.
She left so abruptly. And although she still had so much life to live, I feel thankful, in a sense, that she was able to go not only in her sleep but also on such a high note. She was sober. She had done it.
At 52, she still had so much life left in her. She'd told me just a few months earlier that she had gone to the doctor for a physical who had reported she was “healthy as an ox!” Despite hearing that from her, I had long been worried about her well being. On many occasions, she has engaged in particularly risky behavior, and I found myself bracing for an early death... I had not the slightest inkling of what I would endure if she actually did pass. And she did.
In my arrogance, I thought I was accepting and understanding of death. I thought I knew how I'd feel or react. I'd lost a fair amount of friends and family to death already, I always reasoned. I knew what to expect... But nothing—nothing--compares to the loss of someone so close to your heart. I understood nothing the day before I received that phone call. And I understood nothing all the days preceding that. I understand nothing still, save for the fact that I now know there is simply no way to “brace” oneself for the death of a loved one.
After this experience, I savor each day I awaken. I feel a stronger tie to anyone I'm close to, cherishing the fact that I have time to spend with them, and doing my utmost to appreciate those people and not take them for granted. Death, I feel, is something a person simply can't even begin to understand until it hits very close to the heart. I've found that at times it feels as though there are two camps—those who have lost someone close to them in death, and those who haven't. This isn't to say that one is better than the other or one is wiser or anything of the sort. It's an unfortunate camp to be in, I assure you. And even more unfortunate is the fact that most everyone joins that camp at some point or another in their lives. But I found myself undeniably estranged from those who hadn't experienced it so heavily. I saw them as those existing in a place much happier than the place I now found myself residing. I saw them existing in a place I so desperately wanted to return to, knowing that would never be possible.
It's a wonder to me that death isn't spoken of more readily or taught about in schools. I experienced emotions I never knew existed and suffered the most horrific nightmares I've ever had, which is saying quite a lot, considering that nearly every night for the past 10+ years, I've had nightmares. I found that many people did not know how to speak to me anymore. A chasm that hadn't existed prior to the phone call opened deep and wide between myself and many I'd come to call close friends.
So I'll take a moment to share a few unsolicited pieces of advice regarding death and things you may experience or things you should probably not say to someone who is in mourning.
1) Do not tell a person in mourning that you understand how they feel. I realize that those words are spoken out of sincere love and care, however, it can estrange the person in mourning further. I cannot claim to understand the way my closest friend might feel if they lost their mother. Each person is unique, their experiences and relationships unique, and therefore their losses incredibly unique. I found that the most comforting words spoken to me were simply, “I'm here for you if you need anything.”
2) Alternately, if the person in mourning is someone you care for, it may not be the best for you to distance yourself greatly from them in their time of need. I recognize that some of this advice may be applicable only to me or to those similar to me. Again, each individual is unique and will have their own unique needs. Speaking only from my own experience, having those you are close to draw away from you can be as salt in an open, incredibly vulnerable wound.
3) If you suffer a loss, it is likely that you will have an image in your head of the one you love, dead. And this image is likely to flash and replay itself in your mind over and over again for weeks, months, or perhaps even years. It is horrible, and it is pretty normal, too, I came to find out.
4) You will likely see your dead loved one in everything you do, probably forever. You will be reminded of them constantly. Because they are on your mind so much, they are everywhere. Which, of course, makes the pain and agony that much sharper.
5) You may suffer nightmares. The worst nightmares you've ever had, often revolving around the one you lost.
6) Things don't exactly “get better.” They don't necessarily become “easier,” either, despite what some might say. However, you eventually may accept the shift and absence in your life, thereby pressing on despite the incredible pain of the loss. You may even find a renewed sense of self and purpose in your life, an inner shift due to suffering such a heavy blow. The emotions will ebb and flow in their own rhythm that you may or may not be able to make sense of. The loss becomes a part of you, but whether that be in a negative or positive way is up to you and you alone.
7) There is no wrong way to feel. Cliche, yes. True also.
Understanding that my unsolicited advice is not for everyone is crucial here. I am an introverted individual who suffers off and on from bouts of severe depression, and so much of what I say may or may not apply to many or few. But I felt it worth sharing, because I sure as hell wish I'd known any one of the aforementioned advice pieces prior to losing my mom.
This past week has been excruciating. Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of morbid humor, my mother having moved on from here during the week of Mother's Day... The image was taken in the same field I shot in on May 16th of last year. I shot this image on May 15th, the last day I ever heard from her, and the last day she was alive in the flesh. The poppies represent the bleeding loss of her. The cameo necklace I'm wearing was hers. The song linked was the last song she listened to and one she adored.
I'm not going to go back and reread this before sharing it. It's probably all over the place and poorly edited. But. It came from the bottom of my heart, and whether or not it is well received, it is spoken from my perspective and written in honor of the most fiery, driven, creative person I ever knew and know. My mother.
The Hunter in a Red Plastic Hat and a black and red striped jail line tee held his gun as if he was strumming the guitar in a rock and roll epiphany.
Whether he had an epiphany or not but the situation on the Tiger front has been grim for quite sometime. The Planet Earth is slowly relinquising its flora and fauna as humankind expands in uncontrollable numbers and fritters away Nature and its resources in a headlong dive to extinction for almost all.
Continuing the series
Tiger Tiger, Fading Bright !
The tigers in India are facing the toughest odds and are on the brink of being wiped out. There is a big industry based on tiger claws and bones etc that drives up the demand for the killing of this beautiful beast.
Men will buy a enlargement (is enhancement the right choice of word ?) of libido anytime anywhere but Chinese men will pay top dollars for tiger remains to increase theirs.
If you wonder why all the grand conservation efforts to save the tiger are failing, go no further then the politics of funding tiger conservation. It has been known for years that it is allegedly a big sham with mega bucks and mega publicity but almost nil results.
If you have the time it would be interesting to read some interesting thoughts and the current day reality on the tigers in an exchange between Thatzme and Aditya Singh from Rajasthan.
One can only hope that one sees a tiger in the wild in one's life time as the future generation may not have that privilege anytime soon. So if you are young and in India, head out and go see the elusive tiger before it is too late.
India has only 1150 - 1600 tigers that are available in the wild as per the Minister of Environment Jairam Ramesh.
Will Viagra be the Saviour of the Indian Tiger ?
This is an enactment of the situation at a Kerala street show during Onam in Thrippunithra near Cochin on the Atthachamayam day.
DSC_0840 jpeg via ACR
From 'Our Experts', at the 'Silverfish Safari Park & Petting Zoo'.
Madge ('They' and 'Their') is also a fine painter, specialising in large oil paintings of 'The Ham Fisted' (see below). It should be noted that Madge is 'height diverse' and can change their vertical measurement at will, on a whim, or sometimes even uncontrollably, when they really let it rip.
All our scientific instruments are calibrated to accommodate their shifting height fluctuations.
We pride ourselves on our size tolerance policy, and "no size considered to be too large or too small" is our fledgling conglomerate's resounding leitmotif.
“Life is short, break the rules, forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably, and never regret anything that made you smile. Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did.”
Mark Twain
I am as we all know 51 going on 15 .
Well hands up who can't resist a swing ? This one is a little different as it goes in all directions and is totally uncontrollable. Just a big kid really
Millie is terrified of the noise made by jet planes. One of the advantages of the various lockdowns is that there have been fewer aircraft passing overhead. Yesterday, unfortunately, two low flying military jets passed close to the house and Millie was beside herself with worry. She shook uncontrollably, her heart was pounding and she was panting and drooling. We could not comfort her no matter what we tried. Also, she refused to go to her bed and just stood, trembling with a haunted look on her face. It took her ages to get back to normal - the best part of an hour.
If Fiona and I see an approaching plane before Millie hears it we start singing loudly to distract her. It actually works but she looks at us as if we are nuts. We probably are.
I've never studied physics. How light changes, the way it envelopes a subject, folds, morphs, expands and contracts, explodes and retreats. It's dynamic, uncontrollable as I use it, and it never fails to surprise. As I child I would watch car lights cross my bedroom wall, three stories above the street, and bend around the corner to continue to travel opposite to the direction of the moving vehicle. In photography I let light do it's own thing. Except for chasing certain colors I'll wait for the results to surprise me. At my age I have neither the time or the inclination to study why these things happen. They simply do, and they make me happy.Too old to care about the why now, only the joy in chasing the light remains. Helios 44.3 58mm reverse lens attachment.
Week 2/52
Assistants: Joana Salgueiro and Sofia Tentúgal.
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Last week, I was at the market and passed by some hydrangeas on a stand. I was with my mom, and while she gathered things, I tried to keep my sister distracted, but my eyes remained on the flowers. I started to imagine them growing, taking over the stand, sweet-scented tentacles growing and surrounding other flowers, embracing them. And then I another image came to my mind, the image of Medusa's hair made of snakes, of how they moved like tentacles. My mind was off the flowers, and I moved it to something else. Still, somehow, in the next few days, those two ideas ran into each other in my mind over and over again. I kept picturing Caravaggio's Medusa and replacing the hair with flowers, with the hydrangeas I'd seen. So I wrote it down. Yesterday, I actually drew the scheme for the photo, and what came out was something so much lighter, so much more... pink. And the darkness sort of faded away. This turned from a picture of despair, of insanity, into a girl with an uncontrollable mane made of flowers. And I sort of love it, because that is so much more like me than that darkness ever was.
I found this dead fly attached to the heather in my garden. I assume it is some type of house fly (please correct me if not; and any information on species much appreciated). I often find flies in this typical death pose attached to the higher extremities of plants; they are brainwashed into moving to such locations to die in a specific pose by a parasitic fungus.
For anyone interested, I quote some further information on this fascinating interaction from the book Parasite Rex (Inside the Bizarre World of Nature's Most Dangerous Creatures) by Carl Zimmer (with deletions and insertions marked with square brackets):
"Getting to the next host is a consuming passion among parasites, because there is no alternative: "Live free and die" is their motto. A fungus that lives inside house flies provides a spectacular example of this. When the spores of the fungus make contact with a fly, they stick to its body and dig tendrils into the fly's body. The fungus spreads throughout the fly's body [...] and sucks up the nutrients of its blood, making the fly's abdomen swell as it grows. For a few days the fly lives on normally, flying from spilled soda to cow turd, using its proboscis to sponge up food. But sooner or later it gets an uncontrollable urge [I think caused by the fungus now being ready for the next stage, and growing into the fly's brain, and controlling the fly's behaviour with chemicals, as described here for ants: neurophilosophy.wordpress.com/2006/11/20/brainwashed-by-a...] to find a high place, be it a blade of grass or the top of a screen door. It sticks out its probscis but uses it as a clamp this time, gluing itself to its high perch.
The fly lowers its front legs, tilting its abdomen away from the surface. It flaps its wings for a few minutes before locking them upright. The fungus has meanwhile pushed its tendrils out of the fly's legs and belly. On the tips of the tendrils are little spring-loaded packages of spores. In this bizarre position, the fly dies, and the fungus catapults out of its corpse. Every detail of this death pose---the height, the angles of the wings and the abdomen---all put the fungus in a good position for firing spores into the wind, to shower down on flies below.
As if this were not enough of an accomplishment for a speck of fungus, infected flies always die in this dramatic way just before sunset. If the fungus matures to the point where it can make spores in the middle of the night, it doesn't; it holds off the process, waiting through the dawn and the day. It is the fungus, not the fly, that decides not only how it will die but when---just before sundown. Only then is the air cool and dewy enough for the spores to develop quickly on another fly, and only then are healthy flies leaving the air for the night and moving down toward the ground, where they make easy targets."
A Curious Vigilance
Part One of Two
A Watchman Cometh
“If you can’t take the heat, don’t be tickling dragons !”
Acte 1
Ginny and I had, several weeks ago, received invitations to a fellow student's upscale, formal evening wedding.
Since we both love to get dressed up, it was a no-brainer to accept. Even though we really weren’t players in her circle.
Probably just wanted the gifts. The git.
So I borrowed my twin brothers antique roadster, drove up the road a short way, and picked up Ginny.
As she walked up to the car I couldn’t help but think how we both were dressed for the kill.
I had on my smart purple silk dress with the long pleated slinky knee-length skirt and spaghetti straps. The dress came with a cuffed long-sleeved, waist-length, black satin jacket with rhinestone buttons.
I had put in a diamond pin on one side of the jacket. It was in the shape of a bursting star, giving off a pleasing shimmer.
My other jewels consisted of my silver v shaped necklace. The v was set with small round rhinestones with 3 kite shaped sapphires set hanging down the center of the V. I also had in the necklaces’s matching semi-long earrings. Also worn was my diamond tennis bracelet on my right wrist, while gracing my left was a wide rhinestone bracelet. One ring, diamonds surrounding a gold rose(my best ring) gracing the ring finger on my left hand, completed the look.
Ginny?
Well, our Ginny girl was smashing.
She had poured her lithe figure into the sleek satin high shoulder sleeve 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, grasping claws reaching around up towards her bosom.
“Naughty Dragon.”
Ginny had green mascara above her eyes, around which she drew lines of black mascara to give them a slanted look. The whole effect looked a lot like Shirley Jackson did in the Michael Caine movie Gambit. Right up to the solid gold headpiece in Gunny’s reddish hair.
Ginny also had in her emerald drop earrings, along with her wide emerald bracelet loosely dangling along an otherwise bare left wrist, and a fancy emerald cocktail ring flashing from the pinkie on her left hand.
But it was her necklace that stole the show.
The opulently handsome necklace was the estate auction won, long pendant that had neatly set her back a month's wages. We both had opened bids on it at the same time, with me immediately backing off so she would win it.
It was a very shimmery piece of jewellery, with its long rhinestone encrusted chain hanging past her breasts, ending with a dangling pendant which held a birds egg size synthetic oval-shaped emerald, surrounded by long rhinestone fringes that resembled the silver beard of the dragon on her dress.
It was a very striking effect, especially when it stopped swaying and hung straight down, appearing just out of reach from the grasping front rhinestone claw of the gem greedy dragon.
^^^^^^^^
The church and reception hall was only about a 60-minute drive away green m our village.
We arrived in the city where it was located early and stopped at a pub for a glass of wine, which we drank outside at a garden table.
We then left, arriving at the church with plenty of time to walk around and soak in the surroundings.
Acte 2
The wedding Proper was pretty normal, with the usual pomp, circumstance, and rigid schedule only the upper class seem to achieve with nothing atoll coming close to being original and new.
The reception was more of the same. Ginny, per normal, snagged more time on the dance floor than me. Though I was
by no means being ignored. The bar was free, so we made good use of that.
By around 7:30 we were a pair of happily well-fed, well-partied, and well-liquored-up young ladies.
The reception for the most part was the usual fun and the usual routine flow that goes on at such affairs.
There was only one incident of note, well actually I guess, two, that have a bearing on my story.
The first was this:
A young girl was wearing what must have been a previously worn, hideously yellow, satin bridesmaid gown. She also was wearing a nice set of real diamonds. Ginny was really impressed with the jewelry she was wearing. As the party went, and the more we drank, the more Ginny prattled on over different ways someone could try lifting some of those diamonds from the lady.
Sensing there may be trouble soon brewing, I was getting tired of holding Ginny back from her obsession, that I suggested we should be heading out.
Then I was asked to dance, and lost track of her. When I found her, she was chatting up the lady in yellow satin and diamonds. The lady was holding up Ginny’s shimmery pendant, and I saw that Ginny had a hand placed lightly on the lady’s wrist, next to her diamond bracelet
Telling myself:
“Enough of that missy!”
I went up and pried Ginny away.
“Don’t be tickling that Dragon, even if you were thinking of doing it as a prank.”
I scolded.
My twin brother is always saying “If you are not prepared to take the heat, don’t tickle a dragon!” In other words, don’t invite trouble if you are not sure you would welcome the outcome.
I started suggesting to her we might be heading home soon.
“Stop at our pub(The Poet & Peasant),” I suggested.
Ginny said we should do one better…
We could stop at the old cemetery where we liked to role-play various games of both pickpockets, and jewel thievery. Sometimes combining the two. There she could nick my jewels to her heart’s content.
I admitted that sounded promising.
Then came the second incident on the heels of her suggestion.
Ginny said pleasantly, if we’re not doing the pub, then we should take something to drink with us. That way we don’t need a pub.
Suspiciously, I asked my grinning childhood friend.
“What’s you on about? “
“I mean Cade, nick a bottle while I distract the bartender. He’s working over there alone for a few minutes.”
I sighed, but it may be fun, so game on….
We pulled it off. It was far easier than it should have been.
As Ginny flirted with the young man tending the open bar, so I kept moving till his back was to me, and I ended up sitting on the far end.
I took a deep breath, scurried around and grabbed a bottle from the supply bin on the floor, and walked straight out the nearest exit.
I circled around the building to the lot and found Ginny at the roadster waiting.
She had placed her black beaded purse, opened, on the bonnet of the car and was bending over to put lipstick on using the car's outside mirror.
“What did you snag luv?”
Breathless, I looked at the bottle for the first time. It was a bottle of Penderyn.
Slightly disappointed, I would have preferred wine over a single malt. But it would do.
Meanwhile, I was standing between Ginny and the roadsters’ bonnet.
I handed the bottle to her, and as she looked I reached out behind me and dipping my fingers into her purse pulled out her wallet.
Holding it behind, suppressing a desire to laugh, I circled around to the right side and got into the driver's seat.
Ginny put her lipstick inside her purse and snapped it close with one hand still holding the bottle. Then picking up the purse and got inside the passenger’s seat.
She never noticed her wallet was gone, and by then I had it inside my own purse.
Still totally clueless, Ginny asked as we drove away :
“Do you think we should include your brother in with us?”
I said he was practicing darts with Brian(my boyfriend) and their friend, teammate, and one of our fellow players, Derrick.
Ginny giggled, hoisting up the bottle.
“More for us then.”
Acte 3
We arrived at the cemetery with plenty of light left in the evening. Parking in the open lot, we made our way past the open wrought iron gates.
The almost 40 Hectares square-shaped cemetery is no longer in use, its main gates are permanently opened to the public, but besides us, only very few ever visit it. Judging by the dates on the gravestones, the last burial was not too long after the Victorian age officially ended. No way of truly establishing when its first burial was.
It lays along a lane called Abbots Chase.
Where a highwayman by the name of Craig Abbot used to roam several hundred years ago. It is said he is buried here in this very cemetery. Though most of the old stones are so blackened the names are not legible.
My dad is a direct descendant of Craig Abbot, and much to the chagrin of my mum’s Irish catholic family, my twin brother was named after him. Destiny?
The other end off Abbots Chase lane, west of the cemetery goes past the large old manor house some 5 kilometers away from the cemetery. The manor is now a private men’s seminary college.
^^^^^^^^^^^
We hung out at the cemetery and its interior, and surrounding woods, as kids, walking the 2 Kilometers along from the east end of the lane, where the local village was.
Both Ginny and I grew up in houses located on the opposite side of the village.
We use this private cemetery for our role-playing game adventures. We had the run of the area. Not only because of its solitude, and lack of visitors, but also because there were no roads in it. Only narrow overgrown horse-drawn cart paths. And a few cobblestone footpaths. Both of which are blocked by fallen gravestones.
The games have evolved. But they mostly are based on pickpocketing and other forms of thievery. Mainly related to lifting or the nicking of jewels that the one portraying the victim is wearing. We take turns being one or the other.
Originally there were just the 3 of us, Ginny, my twin brother, and myself. We would bring various costumes, play jewelry, and other various items. Backpacking them in from our homes.
We have since added four more “players” to our group, though only a few times have we all met here in force.
There are also times as we grew older that we have stopped to play after being somewhere dressed up. The motivation can be anything from too much to drink, or something that evening triggered the idea.
Like tonight, with Ginny taking a fancy to a young lady’s diamonds.
Acte 4
Ginny and I entered through the main gate and walked the 75 meters up to the marble pagoda sitting on a small hill.
In years long past, this pagoda would have served as the last service area for the deceased being buried here.
There is a set of steps leading up to the platform which is eye level. On the ground, flanking the steps are a pair of long marble benches. With old wrought iron ones scattered about surrounding the octagonal platform.
As per normal, no sign that anyone had been here in a while. Though we did have a bit of a jump when a fox ran out from underneath the pagoda, giving us the evil green eye before slipping off into some tall grass.
I had brought a blanket which we laid on the stairs. We put down our purses on one of the marble benches.
Sitting on the stairs, Ginny opened the bottle and took a small sip. Followed by a bigger one.
“Whew, that burns going down.”
She exclaimed passing it to me.
It smelled strong.
“Should have brought some water to cut it.”
I said taking a hit, feeling it burn warmly.
We each took several more sips before getting down to business.
I place a hand on Ginny’s arm, looking her in the eyes.
She starts to giggle. As do I also, both of us falling into each other’s arms, hugging as our figures are being racked by our uncontrollable laughter.
Meanwhile, I was busy. My hand running down her arm, I reached her her emerald bracelet and nimbly opened the clasp, easily pulling it off and cuffing it in my fist, moving that hand to her backside, using it to hold her quivering figure close.
Finally, we broke away, settling down. As I stroked her sleek backside with my hand, I say:
“Ok lass, are you ready to lift some of my diamonds?”
Taking a belt from the bottle ( it was not a sip, nor a gulp, somewhere in between)
Ginny nodded her head, earrings sparkling with intensity, like the look in her eyes just before she said:
“Let’s dance.”
Acte 5
I went over and pulled the cell from my purse, seeing a text from my brother asking if:
“Us girls were having fun?”
I sent one back:
“Smashing fun, wish you could be here, now I have to go and see a lady about doing a lift on some jewels she is wearing…”
That should make him stop in his tracks and ponder. I would imagine his own game now being off all of a sudden.
Giggling mischievously, I laid the cell in front of my purse on the marble seat, I selected “And we danced” by the Hooters.
Ginny was already on the platform, strutting her stuff. I went to the stairs, grabbed the bottle, took a swig, and ran up to join her.
She bumped into me with her hip, then went behind me, her hands running along my figure, then pulling me against her she ran her hands down along the satin sleeve of my jacket. I only felt it because I knew it was coming. After all, as her hand slipped along my wrist, she expertly whisked off my diamond bracelet.
I pushed her away using my hinney, then turned and began dancing close to her, wriggling up against and away from her figure. Her eyes had been opened quite wide, from the thrill of the bracelet lift, but she closed them as I rubbed my figure up along hers.
I had been eyeing her dazzling dripping jeweled pendant. My arms went up behind her back. Pulling down the clasp I unhooked it and reaching my hands up, pulled it away from her gown’s rhinestone dragon’s clutches
I had it pocketed before she reopened her eyes.
The music ended, and arm in arm we went back to the stairs, passing the bottle to each other.
We were becoming quite happily intoxicated by now, giggling at everything.
Acte 6
Ginny sets down the bottle, then stares at her bare wrist.
“I don’t suppose this bracelet fell off on its own?”
I chuckled, looking at where her necklace should have been dangling, picking up the bottle.
“No, it had a bit of help, I felt inside my pocket and pulled it out, replacing it as Ginny held up the bottle and asked:
“Another round?”
We both took several swigs before I decided it was time to have a bit more role play.
I place a hand on Ginny’s chest...
“Give me a lead luv…”
Ginny thinks a minute, long enough for us to take another swig each from the fast becoming 3/4 full bottle.
Looking me over, she tells me.
“Take a walk..”
I stand (maybe a little wobbly), and manage to do so, taking the path around the pagoda.
She comes up behind me, putting her hands over my eyes.
“Guess who Abigail?”
I answered...
I’m not Abigail?”
The voice behind me, as the hands are lifted from my eyes and reach down to my chest..”
“I’m so sorry, of course, your not, my bad.”
I turn around to face Ginny…
Placing a hand on my chest( lifting off my broach from the lapel of the jacket) Ginny says:
“I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I made a mistake like that. “
I feel her placing the broach in my pocket, as I say(thinking that counted as two lifts)
“That’s ok luv, we all make mistakes.’
Quite pleased with herself Ginny went back to the steps.
She thought I was following as she talked to me.
I did not, rather I hid in the bushes and watched her.
Ginny picked up the bottle and took a swig, handing it to me…
It was then she realized I wasn’t there.
“Where are you, you silly ninny?”
She called out, then began to walk back the way she had come.
I jump out of the bushes behind her my hand in the satin jacket's pocket( I can feel the cold necklace inside. I point my fingers In the pocket like I am ‘ packing heat’.
Prodding my finger in her back I say
“Stick 'em up, pretty lady!”
Ginny giggles,
“Speaking of sticks. Is that one or are you just happy to see me?
“Funny lady, now turn around. “
She did and gave a fake gasp, hand to her mouth, ring sparkly.
“There you go, now be a good Lass and hand over those jewels around your wrist and finger. ”
She lifted her wrist and undid the bracelet, then slips off her ring. As she hands them to me:
“My this bracelet is popular with thieves this evening.”
She then pulls out her gold hairpiece, shaking down her hair as I take it:
“Here thief. The thing was starting to pull on my hair and bothering me anyways.”
I smirk:
“Thanks, lady !”
We both have a laugh over this latest sequence of events, while I give her back the bracelet and ring.
I lead her, as her laughing satin clad figure leans into me, over to the steps.
But as we approach, Ginny stops and grabs my arm, her, heavily mascara’d eyes suddenly bugging out, placing a hand to her mouth, she really Gasped.
“Cade,Look, over by the gate!”
I did, feeling the hairs on my scalp rise by what I saw!
To be Continued…
Once it was forbidden to photograph in museums, but with the advent of the quality camera in the ever so compact cell phone, it became uncontrollable. But still no flash allowed, after a warning one typically will be asked to leave!
Sitting on my deck today I watched this thunderhead grow with uncontrollable speed. An impressive power of what a mix of water, heat and wind can do.
I remember, when in my 20s, then an avid rock climber, when such a cloud buildup caused serious anxiety. Being in the process of scaling a mountain face and seeing a thunderstorm coming was not a good sign. More than once I was stuck on a cliff face while lightning, thunder and rain made my life miserable and occasionally dangerous.
See the younger me: www.flickr.com/photos/dragonflyhunter/2799820532/in/album...
Those days are long past. I watched this thunderhead rise skyward as if Thor himself was coming. Its belly eventually flattened and grew dark forming an anvil shaped cloud that started pushing lightning and rain groundward. The storm cloud passed south of my house. All I got was a couple drops of rain from it. I took a few steps to safely take shelter in the house before I got wet.
Many of my TG friends work on their appearance to achieve a "passable" look. In other words, they seek to "blend in" and not draw attention to themselves.
Sound familiar?
It's understandable. People are hardwired and culturally conditioned to quickly determine if another person is friend or foe. Or rather, determine if that other person is a member of their tribe.
At least initially-appearances matter.
I admit to having this uncontrollable reflex. It takes a moment to overcome that initial instinct to judge, even though I know better.
So those of us who feel and/or look different naturally fear being perceived as such.
So what can be done to change this situation?
I fear there is no magical solution that instantly erases all fear - even with our best efforts in the best of conditions.
However with time, I like to believe humanity will result in a culturally blended society.
In cultural blending, groups accept new behaviors and values from one another. The exchange produces a new cultural system, which is a blend of the previously separate systems.
Given this healthier possible future, shouldn't we demonstrate, not hide, our behaviors and values? Only by doing so will we be allowed to blend in.
This photo was taken at a hotel in Atlanta, GA where a huge NAACP meeting was being held. I stopped here while on travel and remember feeling welcome among the participants despite huge fears of not blending in. After all, you don't see a tall ginger Glamazon dressed to the nines everyday...even in Atlanta.
Mark Twain is credited with saying "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.”
So, if you can, get out there and blend.
Nora
Lion basking in the early morning sun, with a herd of zebra warily grazing behind him... Mana Pools, ZM.
This chap sunning himself on the Zambezi flood plain at Mana Pools is a big brute…. note that his face has been rearranged by an opponent’s claw / fang…his left nostril has a huge split and the cheek below the left eye is heavily scarred. Life in the wild is tough and unforgiving…
I was spread eagled on the ground about 20 yards from him for this shot….I think it’s a reasonable image, notwithstanding the uncontrollable twitching of my extremities!
Thank you for your visit... I would be pleased if you were to leave a comment, or fave my work if you consider it worthy...
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Standing next to her was one of a very few occasions I remember myself in the last 20 years sobbing so uncontrollably, I had a couple of those this year I wouldn’t lie, definitely wasn’t the best year of my life.
At some point she started waking up so I took my camera and started taking pictures, it’s an interesting feeling, that one that can create a wall around you that only allowing you to focus on the task at hand, which was documenting or capturing the moment, if it’s a sad or happy moment it doesn’t matter.
I was just looking for an angle for the shot, thinking about my depth of field, shutter speed and all the technical aspects...My wife woke up and just saw me playing with the camera, that was the best I could do at that moment while crying in front of her wouldn’t do any good.
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"You must die to be born again.
I've been killed by the people I helped, I cared about, I loved too. And they burnt me.
They burnt me because I was different, because I wasn't the woman I was supposed to be in their minds. A sweet, tender, lovely woman, who never complains, who never shows disappointment, whose mood does not swing often and of course not an obscure creature who loves isolation and speaks about magic.
So they preferred to forget me assuming that their thoughts about me would have disappeared into ashes like my body and soul would have dissolved into dust.
I never gave birth but I guess the feeling should be the same: the unbearable pain ceases at once turning into an uncontrollable flow of pleasure. So I was longing for this moment, for the pain to fade, as I saw it in my visions and I knew this moment would have to come. And so it is, the pain is gone and I survived.
I'm born again and I thank my murderers for giving me the opportunity to discover this new, stronger me and all the things that this death brought to the surface.
You must die to be born again."
This is Child's Road, looking up the hill to Bellevue Avenue, which runs perpendicular to it == photographed from in front of my old house. When I lived here in 1955-56, the street was unpaved.
The driveway and lawn that you see on the right was an empty lot when I lived there, filled with grass and weeds almost as tall as I was.
**********************************
Some of the photos in this album are “originals” from the year that my family spent in Omaha in 1955-56. But the final 10 color photos were taken nearly 40 years later, as part of some research that I was doing for a novel called Do-Overs, the beginning of which can be found here on my website
www.yourdon.com/personal/fiction/doovers/index.html
and the relevant chapter (concerning Omaha) can be found here:
www.yourdon.com/personal/fiction/doovers/chapters/ch9.html
Before I get into the details, let me make a strong request — if you’re looking at these photos, and if you are getting any enjoyment at all of this brief look at some mundane Americana from 60+ years ago: find a similar episode in your own life, and write it down. Gather the pictures, clean them up, and upload them somewhere on the Internet where they can be found. Trust me: there will come a day when the only person on the planet who actually experienced those events is you. Your own memories may be fuzzy and incomplete; but they will be invaluable to your friends and family members, and to many generations of your descendants.
So, what do I remember about the year that I spent in Omaha? Not much at the moment, though I’m sure more details will occur to me in the days to come — and I’ll add them to these notes, along with additional photos that I’m tweaking and editing now.
For now, here is a random list of things I remember:
1. I attended the last couple months of 6th grade, and all of 7th grade, in one school. My parents moved from Omaha to Long Island, NY in the spring of my 7th grade school year; but unlike previous years, they made arrangements for me to stay with a neighbor’s family, so that I could finish the school year before joining them in New York.
2. Our dog, Blackie, traveled with us from our previous home in Riverside, and was with us until my parents left Omaha for New York; at that point, they gave him to some other family. For some reason, this had almost no impact on me. It was a case of “out of sight, out of mind” — when Blackie was gone, I spent my final three months in Omaha without ever thinking about him again.
3. Most days, I rode my bike to school; but Omaha was the place where one of my sisters first started attending first grade — in the same school where I was attending 6th grade. I remember walking her to school along Bellevue Avenue on the first morning, which seemed to take forever: it was about a mile away.
4. As noted in a previous Flickr album about my year in Riverside, I was a year younger than my classmates; but I was tall for my age, and thus looked “normal” at a quick glance. But because I was a year younger, I was incredibly shy and awkward in the presence of girls. Omaha was certainly not “sin city,” but by 6th grade and 7th grade, puberty was beginning to hit, and the girls had grown to the point where they were occasionally interested in boys. The school tried to accommodate this social development by teaching us the square dance (and forbidding the playing of songs by Elvis Presley, whose music was just beginning to be heard on the radio). I was an awful dancer, and even more of a shy misfit than my classmates; I continue to be an awful dancer today.
5. My bike ride to school was uneventful most days; but the final part of the ride was a steep downhill stretch on Avery Road, lasting three or four blocks. My friends and I usually raced downhill as fast as we could; but one day, my front bicycle wheel began to wobble on the downhill run, and my bike drifted uncontrollably to the side of the road and then off into a ditch. I got banged up pretty badly.
6. But this accident was nothing compared to my worst mishap: a neighborhood friend and I enjoyed playing “cowboys and Indians” in the woods near his home (and his younger brother usually tagged along). I had a bow and a few arrows for our adventure, and we often shot at trees a hundred feet away. Unfortunately, the arrows often disappeared into the underbrush (because we were lousy shots) and were difficult to find. Consequently, one of us came up with the clever idea of standing behind the “target” tree, so that we could see where the randomly-shot arrows landed. Through a series of miscommunications, I poked my head out from behind the tree just as my friend shot one of the arrows … and it skipped off the side of the tree and into my face, impaling itself into my cheek bone about an inch below my eye. An inch higher, and I would not be typing these words … (meanwhile, my friend's younger brother grew up to be an officer in the U.S. Air Force, and he tracked me down on the Internet, decades later).
7. In the summer of 1956, my parents decided to spend their summer vacation prospecting for uranium (seriously!) in the remote hills of eastern Utah, where my dad had grown up on the Utah-Colorado border. This entailed a long, long drive from Omaha; and it involved leaving me and my two sisters with my grandparents near Vernal, UT. My grandparents lived in a very small mining village outside of Vernal; and while they had electricity and various other modern conveniences, they also had an outhouse in the back yard. Trips to the “bathroom” in the middle of the night were quite an adventure. On the way back to Omaha at the end of this vacation trip (with no uranium ore having been found), we stopped for a couple of days of camping somewhere in the mountains of Colorado; you’ll see a couple of photos from that camping trip in this album.
8. There were no lizards in Omaha, and thus no opportunity for lizard-hunting with my slingshot—which had been a significant hobby in my previous homes in Riverside and Roswell. Indeed, there was almost nothing to shoot at … and I couldn’t find anyone with whom I could play (and hopefully win) marbles, to use as slingshot ammunition. But for reasons I never questioned or investigated (but about which I’m very curious now), there was a small vineyard in the field behind our house, and I was able to climb over the fence and retrieve dozens of small, hard, green grapes. They turned out to be excellent ammunition … but I never did find any lizards.
9. A few months before my parents left for New York, I told them about the latest craze sweeping the neighborhood: “English bikes,” with three speeds, thin tires, and hand-brakes. I desperately wanted one, but Dad said it was far too expensive for him to buy as a frivolous gift for me: at the time, English bikes had an outrageous price tag of $25. I was told that I would have to earn the money myself if I wanted one … and the going rate for young, scrawny kids who shoveled sidewalks, pulled weeds from gardens, and did babysitting chores, was 25 cents per hour. That works out to 100 hours of work … but I did it, over the course of the next few months, and when I got to New York, the first thing I did was buy my English bike.
10. Toward the end of my 7th-grade school year, everyone in my class was subjected to a vision test: we were lined up in alphabetical order, and one-by-one read off a series of letters that we could barely see on a large placard taped onto the classroom blackboard. Because my surname starts with a “Y,” I was usually near the end of the line … and by the time I got to the front, I had usually memorized the letters (because they never bothered to change them, from one student to the next) without even realizing it consciously. But on this particular occasion in 7th grade, for some reason, they decided to line us up in reverse alphabetical order … and I was the first in line. For the first time in my life, I realized that I could not see anything of the letters, and that I was woefully near-sighted.
11. When I got to New York, my parents took me to an optometrist to get my first set of glasses (and, yes, all of the neighborhood kids did begin taunting me immediately: “Four eyes! Four eyes!”) … and I’ve worn glasses ever since.
Three years after I arrived in New York, the glasses saved my vision when a home-brewed mix of gunpowder and powdered aluminum blew up in my face in the school chemistry lab (where I had an after-school volunteer job as a “lab assistant”). I suffered 2nd-degree burns on my face from the explosion, but the glasses protected my eyes. That, however, is a different story for a different time.
Thanks everyone for humoring me with your guesses. ;-)
This is Curly. He came from the Charlotte County SPCA in St. Stephen NB, Canada. He was originally there when he was 4 months old in January and was adopted out to a family in St. John. His name was George at that time. Two months ago he was returned as he got a bit large and accidently knocked one of the kids over. the shelter renamed him Amos. Because he is only a year old he was quite exuberant to get out of the kennel and people assumed he was pretty wild an uncontrollable. He's actually pretty mellow and just needs a lot of exercise.
We adopted him yesterday and renamed him Curly. Curly is a St. Bernard mix ......they say but we are still wondering what the mix part is ;-) He's a keeper!
As i get older, I am now age 60, I still regret the years I wasted in fear of my desire to dress up as a woman and the way I went into complete denial and continually attempted to suppress my desire to appear as a female. I was brought up in an era when boys were told to be boys and to man up. All I recall is as teenager I was desperate to become a girl. At the time I was confused as I was far from certain if I simply wanted to dress up as a girl or I actually wanted to be a girl.
Being older I think I now have some understanding as to how I was back then. I think part of me is transsexual but it’s not dominant enough to make we want to transition into a full time woman. I also was painfully shy and harboured a dream of performance. I was especially taken with female impersonators who had established theatrical acts. These were not over the top drag queens, these were men whose performance was based upon looking completely convincing as women with no hint of the man being present yet the audience knew they were male. This is an art form in my mind, what I like to call female illusion.
This performance of the audience seeing you appear as a woman right down your physical attributes, clothing, shoes, make-up and hair and confidently performing as a female in front of them genuinely thrilled me and I wanted to be such a performer. To be able to carry off a convincing transformation and have the confidence and nerve as a man to step out on stage such a portrayal would have been quite amazing to experience. Knowing there were men out there that had made careers of doing this type of performance really caught my imagination.
I can still vividly recall the first time as a teenager I shaved my legs, dared to pluck my eyebrows, wore make-up for the first time, styled my hair into a girls style (no ned for a wig back then!), wore a bra and put on my first dress, then slipped on a pair of high heels…my head was spinning and I nearly passed out!
I experienced pure elation, yet there was also fear at that was doing yet every fibre of my being was embracing what I had just done. At last I was a girl! A girl! Oh joy! I loved how I felt in that precious and intense private moment. I also recall I got the shakes, it was uncontrollable for awhile but eventually settled enough for me to stand in front of a mirror. Seeing myself as a girl was quite a moment full of mixed emotions. I was euphoric and the emotions overwhelmed me. This was what I dreamed of doing! I was a boy but I also wanted to be a girl and seeing myself in a dress and make-up made me cry. I was frustrated and elated at the same time. I was a boy, not a girl but I was trying to be a girl and I knew I wanted that, oh yes, I really wanted it!
I began to imagine how it must feel to be a professional female impersonator. How would it be to make a living out of appearing on stage as a woman and entertaining people. Would I ever have the nerve and self confidence to step out in front of an audience completely in the guise of a woman? I wanted to do it but I had self doubt about my abilities. The prospect of a career of dressing up as a woman was alluring but my inner doubt held me back.
Now am 60, I never stepped on stage dressed up as a woman so that dream is unlikely to ever happen now. I still feel a desire to attempt some form of performance as a female impersonator and to some extent, my videos I’ve posted pander to this yearning. Increasingly, I am finding I feel more confident about stepping in front of a video camera dressed as a woman and I enjoy talking to camera in my guise as a female.
However, I’ll admit, my videos to date are rather aimless, rambling and highly self indulgent. I now find I would like to record more videos but have some point to them. I did try a series of videos in the past called ’T-chat’ in which I interviewed other cross-dressers and transsexuals. Unfortunately, this idea proved a failure and never gained much interest within the trans community. In fact sometimes it generated very negative and hostile responses! I eventually gave up on this idea after realising it was pointless doing anymore interviews due to the notable lack of enthusiasm. I think I was rather naive in my plans for such a series of videos.
Despite that not working out I find I am still keen to record videos as my female alter-ego. There are lots of things about my transvestism I have a need to talk about. When I talk to the camera about them I am expressing my own personal feelings and thoughts on being a man that cross-dresses asa woman. I do often wonder how others feel about their own motivations and aspirations with their own cross-dressing.
I would like to improve my videos and take on more interesting subject matter that is related to cross-dressing. I did enjoy the two way conversation in the T-chat interviews and have been thinking of an alternative. What I would love is to hear from other cross-dressers about transgender subjects they have a view on. Appearing on camera as a woman gives me an opportunity to perform as the female impersonator I always wished I had dared to become. I’ve had ideas where i could maybe host a series of videos that includes videos made by other cross-dressers in which they speak on camera on a cross-dressing subject they want open up about or start debate upon. Hopefully this would lead to further responses that can be included in future episodes.
I accept some people have no wish to talk on camera when they are appearing as a woman and I wondered if they too felt as I did that they have questions in regard to their cross-dressing. I the past I used to receive e-mails asking me questions about my own cross-dressing. I am willing to talk openly about them so I wondered if perhaps I could record videos in which I answered their questions.
I also wondered if perhaps questions could be posed on a cross-dressing topic and several cross-dressers could contribute by recording a video of their own answers to such questions. I could then compile these answers in to a video programme.
I’m not trying to be arrogant or ‘me, me, me’, it is a case of I enjoy being a woman on camera and I want to do something that is helpful and interesting for the trans community and i do seek more focus and substance for future videos rather than my stream of consciousness ramblings such as I’ve been doing so far.
I suppose I am aware I enjoy being a an on screen presenter when I dress up as a woman. It’s great fun and a chance tower lots of dresses, experiment with make-up and wear different wigs. In a way it’s me finally being a female impersonator but in a more interactive way than I do at the moment.
I would love torah from anyone who would consider posing a question or recording something on video for inclusion in a future video. It may just be this idea goes the same way as my ill fated ’T-chat’ interview series< i only managed four of them in the end and one person asked for their interview to be taken off-line. I’m not really expecting this to pan out based only experiences but I feel if I don’t mention it then I will never know. If you should feel a willingness to ask a question or record a video about cross-dressing, expressing your own thoughts and views on camera then I’m keen to embark on a series of videos the can include these.
I can be contacted by direct e-mail on: helene_barclay@yahho.co.uk
I don't understand it, I always have nice things to say about them ..... but I guess this one has a point.
Firefighters are amazingly heroic people.
Twin knights with opposite elements, but the same goal. Ahkuva is brutal and almost uncontrollably aggressive. He destroys whatever he feels is in his way. Unlike his brother, he eviscerates his enemies. When he kills, his target is a fraction of their former self. HIs favorite moments are when his brother says "have at it" at which point he goes to decimate villages.
4th Wall: These took a long time to make. Ahkuva, the shadow knight has been done for a while, but I wanted to make sure they got done right and photographed together. Ahkuva was easier to build because I had the parts ready. He uses a measure of old gunmetal, new gunmetal, and the new flat silver color, and they mesh together well because of how they're spaced out. I like the way he turned out. Comments are of course welcome.
If you are interested in my works, they are available on Getty Images.
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Follow me on My Website | Portfolio | Flickriver | Fluidr | 500px | Blog | Facebook | Flavors.me | Tumblr | Google+ | Twitter | exfm | Vimeo
.http://www.flickriver.com/photos/sunrise_at_dawn/popular-interesting/
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I think all art is about control - the encounter between control and the uncontrollable.
- Richard Avedon
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● Non-HDR-processed / Non-GND/ND-filtered
● Black Card Technique 黑卡作品
Even heroes will get mad sometimes...
This is Laxus' alternate form when he gets serious in battle. He discards his lightning powers for plasma and becomes an even greater force to be reckon with! However, his uncontrollable temper during this form may lead regretful decisions and unthinkable consequences later on when he reverts back to normal.
I've found myself some free time and decided to moc a bit. I have this idea of an alt form for Laxus for quite some time and wanted to try it out. Turns out, it's pretty good. I'm grateful that I bought breakout Nex now :P
As always, thanks for stopping by and C&C is always appreciated! :D
July 12 Marsha hopped a taxi from her Vancouver West abode and rode to the weekly flea market on Terminal Avenue east of Main Street. She was so excited and happy with her chapeau and shawl purchases she decided to walk home along the seawall on the south shore of False Creek to show them off. She made it as far as Leg & Boot Square and not one person had said a word. One dog did bark at her heels though. So she decided to call hubby Harry and share her excitment. She sat herself down on the seawall ledge, hauled out her cellphone and called Harrys' cell.
The conversation:
Harry:
Hello Marsha, what's up? Whenever you call me on my cell its typically because you over spent and are looking for me to bail you out. What have you done this time?
Marsha:
Oh stop it Harry, I have been shopping but you will be very proud of the frugality and beautiful items I found.
Harry:
Let me guess. A holiday trailer to tow behind the Bentley.
Marsha:
Oh, honey I would not do that without consulting my designer first and you know he is out of town.
Harry:
How lucky is that! So what did you get, its my turn to buy a round at the club so hurry up and tell me the big news.
Marsha:
Look on your cell, I just forwarded you a selfie with the buys.
Harry:
Jeezus Marsha, what the hell are you wearing! You get that dam lampshade off your head and rag off your shoulders before you reach home. What will the neighbours think! You look like some kind of middle aged harlot.
Damm, I am going to order doubles.
Marsha:
Sobbing uncontrollably, hangs up with out another word.
Permission to use photo.
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05 October 2020.
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You tell a lovely tale with your photos--visually, and in words. Thanks for sharing both. I used this photo in a montage in my language learning video that mentions cell phones, not in the context of the interchange between Harry and Marsha, but in a manner that probably won’t cause any further dickering between the two.
The photo shows up around 5:52 minutes into the video at:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=PH3VJ3SFTWI&t=935s
Your credit info is given at the end of the video and in the informational area on the webpage.
Catch the trade winds in your sails.
Explore. Dream. Discover.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0rxydSolwU
Life is short, break the rules.
Forgive quickly, kiss slowly. Love truly.
Laugh uncontrollably.
And never regret anything that makes you smile.
Mark Twain
© All rights reserved Anna Kwa. Please do not use this image on websites, blogs or any other media without my explicit written permission
Mirit Ben-Nun’s art exists within and beyond reality. She moves away from reality with aggressive and dense colorfulness which reveals an inner testimony of a threatened existence of women. The lines, points and shapes do not reproduce facts but emphasize the special charge of emotional coping.
Mirit Ben-Nun shows a rebellious spirit and tries to reach out to things not through wholeness but via searching for their expression and manifestation.
She explores personal identity and through it tries to define a complementary art, thereby illustrating the world and the nature of human culture. She focuses on the expressive dimension because of the exposure afforded by the uncontrollable moment that so much affects life in a rapidly changing global world.
The discourse between the inner world and the emerging reality is hyperactive and generates in Ben - Nun an endless sequence of works.
From the depths of feelings, dreams, anxieties and expressions arise rigid and exciting meanings of existence whose essence expresses adaptation difficulties and restlessness.
Dora Woda
Greer Grant was a native of Chicago, Illinois. She was a sophomore at the University of Chicago when she met her future husband, policeman Bill Nelson. She left college to marry him. The marriage was a strong one, flawed only by Bill's overprotective nature. Bill was killed in an off-duty shooting, and Greer had to find a job of her own. After weeks of searching, she ran into her old physics professor, Dr. Joanne Tumulo, and signed on as her research assistant.
Dr. Tumulo was working on human enhancement methods effective for women. For several reasons, including distrust for the haphephobic Malcolm Donalbain (Tumulo's financial backer), distaste for Shirlee Bryant (his chosen subject), and Greer's own enthusiasm, Tumolo decided to let her friend undergo the treatment as well.
Greer emerged from the regimen with greatly enhanced physical and mental capabilities, including the peculiar tendency to feel others' pain. Shirlee emerged with similar physical capacity but considerably less mental empowerment, a result they blamed on her lack of adherence to the preparatory regimen.
Tumolo then investigated further, and discovered that Donalbain had created a mind-control device and a set of cat-themed gadgets, with which he intended to make Shirlee his mindless superhuman enforcer. However, she fell to her death while testing the grapple-claw.
Stealing away, Dr. Tumulo presented the story to Greer, along with a spare Cat costume and gadget-set as evidence. However, her intention to call the police was thwarted by a bombing at her lab, which claimed her life. Greer then donned the suit, and set out to put an end to his scheme. With her powers, she adapted quickly to the strange garb and attacked Donalbain's headquarters, before convincing him to commit suicide rather than let himself be touched. A fire set off by the earlier fight then destroyed Donalbain's headquarters, including his copy of the enhancement machine.
Greer then embarked on a brief crimefighting career as the Cat.
Years later, another of Donalbain's Cat costumes surfaced when Patsy Walker discovered it while accompanying the Avengers. Donning it, she began calling herself the Hellcat.
"The Tigra" is the historical defender/champion of the Cat People, a humanoid race created by sorcery during the Dark Ages. Concerned about the Cat People's uncontrollable population growth and savagery, a community of sorcerers eventually banished the entire original Cat People population to a demonic netherworldly realm.
The two very first Cat People, who were themselves very capable scientists and sorcerers, were able to evade banishment through their magic. They continued to live among humanity in secret and worked to refine the Cat People's biology to make a peaceful integration into the human population possible. They were constantly attacked and required a protector. Discovering that the original spell for transforming cats into Cat People like themselves had been rendered inoperative, they created a process combining science, sorcery, and focused mental power that could transform a human female into a "Tigra", a humanoid tiger-like being with abilities that far surpassed those of either race.
This unnamed first Tigra defended the Cat People with great effectiveness, and allowed a new community to establish themselves on Earth, separate from the group that had been banished. This new population continued to live amongst humanity in secrecy through the present day, relying on enchantments that cast the illusion of a human appearance.
Nothing is known about the other Tigras who may have existed, or even if there have been more than two. At the time when Greer was transformed into Tigra, "the Tigra" was only remembered by the Cat People as a distant, but powerful, legend. It has been strongly implied that only one Tigra can exist at any given time.
Dr. Tumulo was revealed to be one of these modern Cat People. When members of HYDRA tracked Tumolo down to obtain "the Final Secret" (the Black Death plague, which was another creation of the first two Cat People), Greer once again donned the Cat costume and drove them off. However, she was mortally injured by a blast from one of their alpha radiation pistols.
Greer regained consciousness in a Baja California cave, surrounded by a gathering of Cat People summoned by Tumolo. Rapidly dying from the radiation's effects, Greer was offered one last hope of survival: a combination of ancient science, sorcery, and mental power that would transform her into Tigra, the Cat People's legendary half-human, half-cat warrior. She readily consented, began wearing only her black bikini from this time on, and arose from the ceremony as a superhumanly-powered human-animal hybrid. Striped fur covered her entire body, her hands and feet bore razor-sharp claws, her teeth became long and pointed, and her eyes were now cat's eyes. In addition to superhuman strength and senses, she also gained many of the drives and instincts of a cat. Soon after, she encountered the Werewolf.
Though initially unable to change back to her human self, Tigra received from the Cat People a mystical cat-headed amulet that allowed her to first create the illusion of her human form and later to change at will. She seldom made use of it, preferring her feline superpowered form and mostly abandoning her life as Greer Grant Nelson.
Greer resumed her superhero career, with most of the world unaware that the woman who briefly fought crime as the Cat was now the feline Tigra. She fought alongside most of Marvel's heavy-hitters in wide-ranging adventures. She first battled Kraven the Hunter, and then teamed with Spider-Man against Kraven. She also became a friend and associate of the Fantastic Four.
When the Avengers found themselves shorthanded, Moondragon used her mental powers to compel a dozen unaffiliated heroes (apparently selected at random) to travel to Avengers Mansion and audition for the vacant position. Though he disapproved of Moondragon's methods, Captain America offered Tigra a spot on the team.
Although Tigra's first tenure with the Avengers was brief, she served well. She also aided the X-Men against Deathbird. Her time with the Avengers was highlighted by her saving the world from destruction by the Molecule Man single-handed, who intended to consume the planet's energy, like Galactus. Alone among the Avengers, she was able to get close enough to him to talk him out of his plan. She convinced him to seek help from a therapist and the Molecule Man has ceased to be a threat to this day.
The Avengers fought the Ghost Rider, who blasted the team with his terror-inducing hellfire. The nature of Tigra's powers caused her to be affected by the exposure on a far deeper level than her teammates. She was left with great self-doubts about her qualifications as a member of Earth's premier superhero team, particularly alongside such heavy-hitters as Thor and Iron Man. Ultimately she resigned her membership, leaving the team on good terms.
She resumed her modeling career, moving to San Francisco when employers on the East Coast proved unreceptive to the idea of a cat person model. There she befriended private investigator Jessica Drew, and aided her on several cases, but had no better luck with modeling work there than on the East Coast and accepted an offer from the Vision to become a founding member of the Avengers' new West Coast-based team. Alongside the new West Coast Avengers, she fought Graviton, and became a close friend of Wonder Man. She also began a flirtation with Henry Pym.
While with the West Coast Avengers, she seemed to have shed the remainders of her hellfire-induced self-doubt. However, the cat-like aspects of her personality (such as a penchant for savagery and a need for affection) had begun to dominate her human intellect, causing her increasing distress. She sought help from her Avengers teammates in overcoming the "cat" side of her personality, which had caused her to become the lover of both Wonder Man and Henry Pym. She also encountered and fought the Werewolf. She was transported with the West Coast Avengers by Balkatar to the realm of the Cat People. Ultimately, she came into contact with the banished colony of Cat People, whose king agreed to resolve her crisis in exchange for carrying out her historical function by murdering the Cat People's longtime foe, Master Pandemonium.
Though she initially accepted their terms, when the critical moment came at an arena in the Cat People's realm, Tigra refused to violate the Avengers' code against killing, and failed to kill Master Pandemonium. The Cat People stripped her of her "Tigra soul" (the peculiar articulation of her Tigra powers in this demonic realm). She was reduced to her normal, pre-transformation human state.
The Hellcat, who had accompanied Greer and the West Coast Avengers, lent Greer the super-suit that she used to wear as the Cat, and a battle ensued. As the tide began to turn against the Cat People, their leader released the "Tigra soul" as a means of confusing Greer. The tactic backfired: the cat-suit had been designed by a Cat Person (Tumolo) specifically to amplify Greer's human capabilities, so instead of Greer being dominated by the "Tigra soul" as before, the suit caused her human and feline personalities to successfully integrate together.
This time, Greer's transformation into the legendary cat-warrior was much more complete than before. Her strength and abilities were far greater than they were originally. Her appearance became more feline, and she grew a tail like the rest of the Cat People. She also lost the ability to shift back to a human form, though as before she showed no sense of loss for her human identity.
Her transformation was so complete and the Tigra legend was so strong among the Cat People that they immediately ceased hostilities. Tigra continues to hold a position of significant reverence among the Cat People.
The transformation also resolved the conflicts between the human and feline aspects of her personality. Tigra could now exploit the full range and ferocity of her abilities without fear of going so far that she would lose control of her actions, and she could also indulge her natural feline inclinations (such as hunting and chasing prey for enjoyment) without feeling guilty or self-conscious. This integration was confirmed in concrete ways immediately upon the team's return to Earth. Tigra performed a sport dive off the highest span of the Golden Gate Bridge, exhibiting no signs of any injury or fear of the water. She also terminated her ongoing relationship with Hank Pym, explaining that although she no longer felt a cat-like need to seek affection at every opportunity, she had no conventional human desire to be tied down to one mate, either.
She was captured by Graviton at one point, but freed the Avengers from him. Around this time, the Arthurian Lady of the Lake summoned the West Coast Avengers to England to aid the superhero team Excalibur. With the others, Tigra ventured into the realm of limbo to help stop Doctor Doom's mad plans to gain power at the cost of killing everyone in Britain.
Tigra briefly left the West Coast Avengers in a dispute over the Avengers' policy against killing. Tigra stated that she believed by her very nature that killing prey was sometimes necessary.[volume & issue needed] She joined Mockingbird and the Moon Knight in forming an independent group.
After returning to the team, Tigra inexplicably underwent another "inversion" and transformed into a more animal-like feline form, losing her human intellect completely and becoming a danger to her fellow Avengers. This was possibly due to the reality-warping machinations of Immortus, who at the time sought to distract the team so as to have unimpeded access to the Scarlet Witch. Tigra was forcibly shrunken down to sub-house cat size by Hank Pym and kept in a cage in his lab while the team tended to other urgent matters. She escaped and traveled into suburbia, where she lived as a wild animal.
She was ultimately rescued and restored to her former appearance and stability by noted witch Agatha Harkness, who was an associate of the West Coast Avengers at the time.
Tigra resumed her membership in the West Coast Avengers. On an intelligence-gathering mission in Japan, she and Iron Man battled a team of Asian supervillains known as the Pacific Overlords. During the fight, Iron Man was incapacitated and Tigra suffered a deep, critical stab wound to the abdomen before dispatching her attackers and making her escape. She flew away in the Avengers' Quinjet, intending to report back to headquarters on the Overlords' plans, but severe loss of blood caused her to lose consciousness and crash land in Arnhem Land, an Aboriginal territory in northern Australia. Rescued by Aborigines, she decided to stay put while she recovered from her wounds, naming Spider-Woman (Julia Carpenter) as her replacement. She briefly made Arnhem Land her home, enjoying the company of the Aborigines and the pleasures of living wild.
After the West Coast Avengers disbanded, Tigra resumed her wide-ranging adventures. Though no longer an active Avenger, she continued to participate in Avengers operations when needed as a member of the team's extended family.
With the aid of a new transformation device to disguise her true identity from her fellow officers, Tigra spent some time on the New York City police force. She focused much of her time on a personal case and in combating a force of vigilante police officers.
Later, mystical forces which attacked all Avengers brought her to the Avengers Mansion. There, she and all the other Avengers were entrapped by Morgan le Fay, to live out in an alternate universe where le Fay ruled, fighting alongside the others as one of the "queen"'s guards under the name "Grimalkin". After the defeat of Morgan, Tigra went off into space with Starfox to enjoy the pleasures found there. She appeared off and on, having a series of adventures as part of the ad hoc space-faring Avengers Infinity team in which she helps in preventing an extra-universal race from destroying all life in our universe.
Tigra returned to Earth with the Avengers Infinity team during the Maximum Security storyline, during which she helped to save the Earth from becoming a penal colony for alien criminals.[volume & issue needed] She played a particularly crucial role in events when the Infinity team were captured after discovering the Kree's role in recent events, with the Kree intending to lobotomize the team and make it appear as though they had destroyed another planet; due to the attention the Kree had paid to keeping the more powerful team members contained, they were unprepared for Tigra, the weakest member, to escape her bonds by returning to her smaller human form, allowing her to escape her shackles and free her teammates in time to reveal the truth.
⚡ Happy 🎯 Heroclix 💫 Friday! 👽
_____________________________
A year of the shows and performers of the Bijou Planks Theater.
Secret Identity: Greer Grant Nelson
Publisher: Marvel
First appearance: Giant-Size Creatures 1 (July 1974)
Created by: Tony Isabella (Writer)
Don Perlin (Artist)
These girls live close to our home and are about the same age as the Wildbunch and they love them!
Their names are Tinka and Noushka and they are so adorable...sometimes we meet on a hike,
and this time we arranged a walk together...
It's hard to take pictures from all of them together, I'll try harder next time!
Walking with these five explosive and uncontrollable mad dogs was a real challenge! (smile)
--x--
HOME.
Home again.
I like to be here, when I can.
And not when it’s some other version of it.
This time I’m really here.
My Batcave.
My Gotham.
My Universe.
But not for long… Just long enough to pick up a few things.
I walk over to the Batcomputer, and look around. The cave is already lit. Carrie must've been in recently.
It’s so much cleaner here, than the last one I visited.
Sir, now we’ve temporarily stopped at home, I suggest we make some minor repairs to the-
“Yeah yeah, A.L.F.R.E.D, I’m on it.”
That fight with the OMAC was taxing on the suit, I haven’t been able to activate the nanotech since the fight. Luckily the Batcomputer has managed to synthesise a new batch, which I immediately apply to the suit. Within seconds it’s repaired and I’m able to activate it and switch into my street clothes.
It never fails to amaze me.
“Schway”
The next stop is to replace the grenade. I’m not quite sure if I trust Tim’s past tech. But nonetheless, I’ll still carry it with me. The gamble might be able to pay off someday. I pop off the strip of metal, with the carving on it, and put the grenade in it’s place.
Hmmm.
Maybe I should get it checked out.
A enclosure in the Batcomputer opens up, and I slot the strip in. Hopefully this analysis will yield some results, and I’ll actually be able to figure out what this thing is.
A lone voice cuts through the silence, and my concentration.
“I had a feeling you’d stop off here.”
Immediately turn. I’d know that voice from anywhere.
“Oh my god, Dana”
“Hey, Ter”
She steps out of the shadows, beautiful as ever. I haven’t seen her in so long. And by the expression on her face, she hasn’t seen me in a while either.
...
The cave is not exactly the place you want to have stage a reunion with your fiancée.
So we exited the cave, and the manor altogether.
And instead down to the beach that resides near the opening for the Batboat.
No one ever comes down here. I guess that’s why it makes it romantic.
It’s silent too. Dana slips her shoes off and taps her toes at the edge of the water. She instantly retracts them, and lets out a soft yelp. Looks at me and giggles. But it quickly fades.
I look away from her, and my eyes move across the horizon.
There’s an abandoned pier in the distance. It’s now a Jokerz hideout. Strangely dangerous letting it be so close to the cave. But it makes sense to keep my friends close, and my enemies cl-
“What are you thinking about?”
“I- What?”
“You heard me Ter, why aren’t you talking to me. You’ve been back 5 minutes, and you won’t even look at me.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just-”
“You’ve been gone for three months, Ter… what have you been doing?
“Looking.”
“Not at me, clearly… It feels like you don’t even want me anymore.”
This shocks me into reality. And immediately I’m listening to what she’s saying.
“Dana… I’ve had a lot to do. So much searching…”
“For what? For answers? You’re never going to find them.
Bruce is gone. Accept it.
Please. Just stay here. Don’t leave me again. Don’t leave your family. Don’t leave Matt.”
We start to walk up the rocky path that runs along the beach. She puts her shoes back on, and looks to me for a response, before we continue walking again.
“Matt knows I’ll be away for a while. He knows how important being Batman is.
You know how important it is. But I’m not saying that you’re not important. I’m just-”
“Doesn’t matter. I can deal with it. I’m your fianceé.
But he’s your brother. He’s just a kid, that misses the only father figure he has left in his life. You should at least visit him. Or call him. He misses you so much.”
“I know, but I just can’t. None of you are supposed to know I’m back.”
“I get that, but I’m not cool with this, Terry. I miss you more than anyone. I need you back. And if you won’t stay for me, or for your brother. Stay for this city. Things haven’t gotten better since you’ve left.
Sure, Carrie is keeping a firm hold on the city. But for how long?
Jokerz have been too much for her to handle.
Your absence is killing this city.
It’s killing me.
And you know what the worst part is? Even though you’re back, I can’t even talk to my Terry anymore. Instead, standing in front of me, is Batman.”
These words sting. Slag, do they sting. Have I been gone too long?
“Terry, you need to stop and think about what’s more important. This quest of yours or-“
A voice comes out from in front of us, interrupting Dana:
“Ooooh ho hoooo. What’s this? A romantic stroll along the beach?”
The man dressed in purple and wearing shitty makeup, who approaches us out of the shadows, needs no introduction. Nor does his gang.
“Jokerz.” I scowl under my breath.
It’s the usual suspects again. J-man, the Joker wanabe, and his gang. Come to think of it, most of them are wanabes. Ghoul? Scarecrow wanabe. Terminal? Two Face.
I haven’t seen Terminal in a while. He’s not part of this group.
They begin to surround us, one of the Dee twins is already at our backs, and ready to strike.
Dana grips my arm. Then releases it.
She looks up at me and grins.
“Go get ‘em Ter”
As if in response to her words, the suit materialises around my hand, up my arm, and across my chest.
Before they know it, The Batman is standing in front of them.
Immediately Woof, Scab, Ghoul, and Deidre bail out of fear. What twips. I was expecting a small fight. I guess I’ve been absent for so long, these guys have only just remembered again what it feels like to get their ass beaten.
J-man is the last one left standing. He starts to back away as I approach him.
“Was that some sort of an attempt at a joke? Or a threat?”
“Uhhh… no. NO! I was genuinely concerned for your safety. Wow. Look at how edgy these rocks are… pleasedontkillmemisterbatmansir”
I lean in and growl at him:
“The only edgy thing here is you, emo droog.”
This confuses him. Exactly as intended.
“Uh… was that some sort of attempt at a joke? Or a threat?”
I take the opportunity to get in a quick punch, and he goes down easily.
Jokerz are nothing compared to the big bads like Superman or OMACs. At least Superman gives me a run for my money. Even when I have Kryptonite. These guys are complete schwarbage, and can’t eve-
He propels himself up from the ground, and tackles me down.
Damnit. I need to pay more attention to Tim’s advice to wise up.
Once down I look up and see that he’s stumbling away from me and towards-
Oh no.
Dana.
J-man approaches her, with his knife in his hand, giggling uncontrollably.
He raises it to her.
I’m too far away… I won’t be able to get to her in time.
I bring a batarang to my hand, and raise it as well.
He starts to bring it down, and I throw it at his knee.
Unexpectedly, Dana charges forward and kicks him in between the legs.
How did I get so lucky with this girl? Only she’d have the balls to do something like that.
He goes down, and as he does the batarang that was meant for his knee goes to his head and he face plants.
Dana starts to laugh. And she’s right to, that was hilarious.
I join her, and J-man gets up. And stares at us in bewilderment, as we laugh at him.
He starts to hobble away; wounded, intimidated, and ultimately defeated.
He throws back a threat, to make himself seem manly again:
“I know who you are, Batman! I know your girl! I will find you!”
Dana scoffs at this: “Let them try.”
He continues to hobble away for a few metres, then stops, clutches at his groin, moans, then tries to run towards the pier, where the rest of his gang is hiding.
I go over to her and hug her from behind, and we watch him, giggling away.
Moments like these are what I live for. And I can forget all about my troubles. I can forget that the Jokerz are a serious gang. Or that Gotham is ridden with crime and corruption. And more importantly that Bruce is gone, and every single version of him in the multiverse is dead.
...
After a quick visit to my family, and even dinner with Dana. We’re back inside the cave, and she waits as I prepare to leave.
It was nice. Seeing my mother again, and having my little twip of a brother be annoying, yet adorable. And just being with Dana, made this whole thing worth it. This little stop over was nice, while it lasted.
But it’s not what I need to do.
I go to the Batcomputer again, to check the results.
Nothing.
I eject the strip and return it to my belt. Fat lot of good that did. Passing by Bruce's desk, I pick up the only thing that catches my eye. A small box of inter dimensional communicators.
It’s time to go.
The suit covers my body again, fully repaired. And I go to leave.
But I can’t. Not yet.
I feel Dana’s gaze on my back, watching my every move.
So I turn to address her. She has those big puppy dog eyes, that everyone has when they want something. But it’s her mouth that lets me know what she wants:
“I wish you could stay longer…”
“Dana… I need to do this”
“Then go Terry… just go. Don’t expect me to be here waiting.”
She then begins to leave in a huff. But I can’t let things end on a note like this. So I call her back.
“Dana. Don’t be like that, you know that I’d do anything to be here with you.
But some things are more important”
“Yeah. Like some creepy old guy”
“Like the disappearance of my father from the face of all existence”
She stops in her tracks, turns around, and hugs me apologetically.
“Terry. You know I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just… scared I’m going to lose you. Every day I worry whether you’ll come back or not. Or how long I have to wait until I see you again. Will it be another day? A week? A month? Or will you just not be back at all?
We stop everything. My suit drops away. All arguments and fears are deflated.
And we just embrace.
All this jumping from world to world, and ultimately I’m holding my true world in my arms.
Everything stops for a second. And we quietly enjoy being in this moment. Just her and I.
I don’t know for how long. It felt like an eternity. And in that eternity, nothing mattered. All my problems went away. It was just me and her… My Dana.
But before I get lost in the emotion, I look into her eyes, plant a soft kiss on her lips. and pull away.
She looks at me, with the most pained expression on her face.
She knows this is the moment I have to leave, and pulls me back for another quick kiss.
Tell her you love her Terry.
Just tell her.
“You know… I really needed this. To be here, and see you.. But-“
“I know Terry. Just go. I’ll… I’ll be waiting for you”
I place one of the inter dimensional communicators in her hand.
"If you ever need me back. Just call."
She doesn't reply, as she knows I have a much bigger mission on hand.
I go again to tell her that I love her, but can’t find myself to utter the words. So I simply turn, suit up again, and leave her. Hopefully I’ll see her again.
I glance back, and she blows me a kiss, and smiles.
“God I love her”
She giggles.
“I love you too, Terry”
Wait… did I say that out lou- The vortex appears with its palette of bright colours, and sucks me in. Once again, I’m propelled towards an unknown destination. Unsure what I will find.
But I hope one day, I’ll be able to come back here.
When all of this is over.
And see Dana again.
This West Bound CSX Train had stopped in the Richmond Viaduct on 1.2.2016. It appeared to have some problems when the Horn on the trailing Loco went off uncontrollably. That's when the Engineer came out and attended to it. Here, he goes back to the Engine after everything is okay.
If Mr. Brown Pelican can give us all a succinct and infallible argument proving that the Universe belongs to him by right, I will personally deliver his Nobel Prize for Uncontrollable Rhetoric. In the meantime, you won't find many of Mr. Pelican's encomiasts who will openly admit that they favor Mr. Pelican's schemes to blacklist his enemies as terrorist sympathizers or traitors. In fact, their put-downs are characterized by a plethora of rhetoric to the contrary. If you listen closely, though, you'll hear how carefully they cover up the fact that Mr. Pelican plans to promote vigilantism's traits as normative values to be embraced. He has instructed his zealots not to discuss this or even admit to his plan's existence. Obviously, Mr. Pelican knows he has something to hide.
Just to clarify, nothing to do with the Reign of the Supermen storyline. Just needed a good title, and, well, it fit. So, judging as the Superman of the Overlords-verse has been around over a century, I thought it wasn't unreasonable for others to have tried to create Super-beings for their own nefarious purposes *cough* Lex Luthor *cough*. So, I came up with this lot, and improved Project Kr a bit too while I was at it. I'm also gonna put some dates before the stories, just for e, so I can keep track of what's happening when. So, onto their stories (L to R):
Cyborg Superman (1993) - The first successful attempt by Lex-corp at a Superman Luthor could control. Hank Henshaw was just one of many test subjects. A former astronaut, his shuttle had been hit by a solar flare, which had caused the untimely deaths of his fellow crewmates. Henshaw, by some miracle, had survived the initial flare, but was now suffering the after-effects. His body was changing, poisoned against him, and he knew he didn't have long. And so, he volunteered himself to be experimented upon, and hopefully be reborn as a cyborg. The process was long and painful, countless surgeries were performed, and with every one, Hank lost a little bit of himself.
After nearly two years, he was ready. He awoke standing in front of a small group of scientists. Their mouths were agape, and sheer horror was spread across their faces. Though his hearing wasn't quite working yet, he caught the odd word. "freak" "mistake" "abomination". He stumbled his way through the lab, pushing and shoving his way to the doors. They were locked. He flew into a mad fury, destroying everything he could reach, his newly found heat vision setting the lab ablaze. As the sprinklers settled the fire, Hank looked down, and saw himself reflected in a piece of polished steel. He was a freak. Those scientists and doctors had turned him into a nightmarish, twisted version of himself. Hell, he wasn't even himself, just a distorted image of Superman. Launching himself into the air, he flew through the night sky, straight up, away from it all. He needed...time away, to reflect. to try to come to terms with what had been done to him. as he drifted through space, he focussed his mind, tried to home in on something, anything to stop himself going mad. His hatred for Superman, the man he resembled so much, but was nothing like. That alien was a hero, loved by billions. He was just an astronaut who'd run out of luck, forgotten. All he was now, was a bad imitation of the man of steel.
Kr 1.0 (Bizarro) (2004) - Kr 1.0 was the first 'successful' clone of Superman that Lexcorp was able to produce. It had been years in the making, cost billions of dollars, but finally, it was ready. After the initial failure of the cyborg Superman, this was to be a success, a good investment. However, it was not meant to be. The tank was drained, and the clone was let out. It took a few steps, before falling to the floor, It was weak, barely able to move. No wonder, having spent all of its life in a tank. It was taken away to be clothed, and most importantly, assessed. Luthor and his scientists were eager to see what their investment could do. After many weeks, the scientists were able to confirm that though the clone had all the powers of Superman, it was a bit behind in cognitive ability. It often got lost in thought, which meant it struggled to control its powers. Luthor spent a small fortune in funerals for those it had incinerated while it wasn't paying attention.
It had been almost two months, when Luthor was awoken to an urgent phone call. The clone had broken free of its bonds, and had escaped. Though free, it seemed the clone didn't know what to do with itself. It just hovered, hundreds of feet from the ground, staring absent mindedly at the rising sun. It was transfixed, nothing could get its attention. Before Luthors men could recapture it, it was gone, flying towards the sunrise. It was here it met what it was supposed to be. Superman. It was still transfixed by the sun, just staring at it. 'The light's pretty, isn't it' It said to him. Superman was taken aback. This man, hovering in mid-air. It looked like him, but....something was wrong. The clones eyes glowed, burning with the heat vision it couldn't control. Before Superman could react, the clones eyes erupted with fire, the flames hitting a passing passenger plane, thousands of miles away. Superman shot off to save the plane, but he was too late. though he was able to catch it, the plane broke apart in mid-air, and crashed into a field. After calling in the League to help search the wreckage, he went back to find the man responsible. He had landed now, his head in his hands, weeping uncontrollably. He looked up when Superman landed in front of him. He looked angry. "Where did you come from?" Superman asked the clone. It looked down to the ground, not answering. It was clear it wasn't in its right mind, that something was missing. Then, it spoke, in barely a whisper "Kill me". Superman was taken aback. On one hand, he knew it had to be done, there was no way this man could be allowed to live, especially if he couldn't control his own powers. Before the war, Superman would have taken him to the fortress of solitude, tried to teach him to control his powers. But with everything going on in the world, the state of the world, and with his newly found cousin taken into account, he knew that for once, just this once, he would have to make the tough decision, and choose the easy way. Despite all this, he still tried to reach out to the man, to try to help him. "You don't understand, this was my fault. I killed those people. They're all dead, because of me. If you don't kill me, it'll happen again, and again, I can't control these powers" With this, Superman knew he had to make the choice. He told the man to turn away from him, to look at the flowers, shooting up from the grass. Once the deed was done, he buried the man, in a grave he dug with his own two hands. Having nothing to wrap him in, he took his own cape from his shoulders, and wrapped the body in it. He then laid him to rest, said a prayer, and buried the grave. He then flew off to help the rest of the league in their attempt to save whoever he could from the wreckage.
Project Kr - Won't bother with their story, as I've covered it so many times before. Same as before, can't breathe our air, weakened powers, full powers yadda yadda yadda.
The Eradicator (2001/2) - When Superman found his cousin hidden away in the ruins of a CADMUS research facility, he discovered many other Kryptonian artefacts. Amongst them was a sentient computer system. When he touched it, it sprung to life, growing a body. Once complete, it rose from the ground, hovering in the air. "Recognised, El bloodline. Kal-El son of Jor-El and Lara-El recognised". All good so far. "Criminal element detected, Crime: high treason, Verdict: Guilty. Punishment: death. Kal-El, son of Jor-El, prepare to be eradicated". Shocked Superman stumbled back, preparing himself for a fight. Though weak, exposed wires and servo units, the eradicator floated towards him, arm outstretched, burning with Yellow light. Using his heat vision, Superman was able to repel the Eradicator, sending it flying into a wall. Though it got up, the ceiling collapsed, an the Already weak eradicator was destroyed. Pulling it's body from the rubble, Superman returned it to the Fortress of solitude, where he could safely study it, as well as find out what it meant when it talked of his recently discovered father, and what it was he had done back on Krypton.
So, those are the other Supermen of the Overlords-verse. Quite enjoyed coming up with these, and I'm glad I was able to find a goodish way to tell Bizarro's story. So, as always, please lemme know what you think, and if you'd like to see even more of the Overlords-verse :D
Barbie and her friends are off to the Midnight Festival at the old ruined Azrak Abbey...
"So, who's playing?"
"Let's see... according to this it opens with Black Mass... then Skyclad Dance..."
"Oooo... aren't there a couple of former members of Lynyrd Skynyrd in that?"
"... then Blood Sacrifice followed by Tantric Demon Orgy..."
"Oh dear, I've got a bad feeling about this... it all sounds a little Heavy Metally?"
"But these tickets do promise that we're the extra-special guests of honour! Wasn't it so nice of the Fashion Royalty dolls to give us these tickets!"
"And judging by their uncontrollable laughter they were soooo happy to give them to us too!"
One of the most iconic fighters to come out of World War II, the P-51 Mustang, came about as a result of the desperate need of the British for fighters in 1939, as the war began. British industries were already at capacity producing the Hurricane and Spitfire, and of the American fighters being made or planned, the RAF only saw the P-40 Warhawk as being able to fight the German Bf 109s. With Curtiss at maximum output building P-40s, the British approached North American, who had been trying to sell the RAF the B-25 Mitchell, with an offer to license-build P-40s. North American’s president, James Kindleberger, had a better idea: design and build an entirely new fighter based around the P-40’s Allison V-1710 engine. The RAF was willing to fund a prototype if it cost less than $40,000 and could be delivered by January 1941; the contract was signed in April of 1940. North American flew the first NA-73 prototype in October, only 178 days later.
Given the short time North American had gone from a blank sheet of paper to a flyable aircraft, one might expect that the NA-73 fell short of the requirements. It improved upon it. The RAF had only desired four .30 caliber machine guns; the NA-73 had that, plus an additional four .50 caliber machine guns (two in the wings with the .30s and two in the cowl). Despite its thin, highly aerodynamic fuselage, it had a large fuel capacity that could make it an escort fighter and an interceptor. Moreover, it incorporated two radical design features: one was mounting the radiator below the fuselage; besides saving space, it also allowed the pilot to force hot air out of the radiator to boost speed. The most radical was the use of a laminar-flow wing. Compressibility, where air going over a wing would reach supersonic speeds and cause the aircraft to accelerate out of control in a dive, was a minor problem in the P-40 and notorious on the P-38 Lightnings. With a laminar-flow wing, airspeed over the wings never reached supersonic speeds, preventing compressibility without sacrificing maneuverability. The RAF eagerly accepted the design as the Mustang Mk. I and it entered production in mid-1941.
When the RAF began operating the Mustangs in combat, however, they found that the fighter, while able to maneuver with even the Focke-Wulf 190 and having plenty of range, was sluggish and slow above 15,000 feet. This was due to the V-1710 engine, which had never been designed for high-altitude performance. North American had experienced misgivings about the V-1710, but it had been part of the specification—the Mustang Mk. I was useful in low-level roles, especially reconnaissance, and the USAAF took an interest in it as a ground-attack aircraft, ordering 500 as the A-36A Apache.
In April of 1942, a Rolls-Royce technician got to fly a Mustang Mk. I and he was suitably impressed by its maneuverability. He was interested in whether or not a bigger engine could be used on the aircraft, and five Mustangs were turned over to Rolls-Royce to be equipped with a Merlin engine and a propeller adapted from the Spitfire Mk. IX. The test pilots were stunned by the increase in performance: above 15,000 feet, the Merlin-engined Mustang not only retained its agility and range but its speed was increased to 433 mph and the ceiling to 40,000 feet. North American learned of these tests and embarked on a redesign process, culminating in the P-51B: this had a strengthened fuselage and wider radiator for the more powerful Merlin; the armament was reduced to save weight to four (later six) .50 caliber machine guns in the wings. With drop tanks fitted under the wings, the P-51Bs could fly virtually anywhere in Europe. The Mustang had finally realized its full potential, and the USAAF, which had been taking catastrophic losses to bombers over Germany due to the lack of long-range fighters, now had one.
The P-51Bs began reaching Europe by August of 1943, and when they reached the 8th Air Force in numbers by late 1943, the situation in the air over Europe started to change. While P-51 pilots loved the responsiveness and speed of the Mustang, a few problems did crop up: the gunsight was challenging to use, the guns tended to jam, the glycol cooling system for the engine was easy to hit and would doom the P-51 instantly, and the P-51B lacked vision to the rear. The type also showed a propensity to go into uncontrollable snap rolls at high angles of attack. In response, North American designed the P-51D, which solved most of the problems: it had a cut-down rear fuselage and incorporated a bubble canopy, giving the P-51D the best visibility of any fighter of the war; the adoption of the K-14 gunsight was much easier to use and more accurate; the machine guns were set upright and spaced along the dihedral of the wing rather than along the path of flight, making them more accurate as well and mostly curing the jamming problem (high-G turns could still jam the guns); the snap-roll problem was fixed by adding a fin fillet to the tail. Nothing could be done about the glycol system, and more P-51s would be lost to ground fire hitting the glycol tanks than any other reason. (This was the primary reason the P-47 Thunderbolt, with its radial engine, took on the bulk of ground attack missions, leaving the P-51s as the primary escort fighters).
The P-51s would bear much responsibility for swatting the Luftwaffe from the air. It could outperform the Bf 109 in all respects, and even with an Fw 190 below 15,000 feet—above 20,000 feet, the Mustang had the advantage. Nearly 5,000 German aircraft would be shot down by P-51s, the highest total claimed by any Allied fighter during WWII. Almost 1,000 more Japanese aircraft could be added to that total as P-51Ds began reaching the Pacific in 1944, acting as escorts for the B-29 bombers. Many aviation historians generally consider the P-51 Mustang as one of the finest fighters of World War II and, by some, the most pure fighter of all time.
After WWII ended, North American began the production of “lightweight” P-51Hs, which used lighter construction materials, lengthened the fuselage for better performance, and raised the tail for better aerodynamics. The Merlin engine was modified with a new water-injected supercharger. While not as aesthetically attractive as the P-51D, the P-51H was among the fastest piston-engined aircraft ever built, with a top speed of only 120 mph below the speed of sound. Redesignated as the F-51 by the newly independent USAF in 1948, the Mustang’s combat duties weren’t finished yet. Though not suited for the role, the availability of aircraft meant that the F-51s would be used as ground-attack fighters throughout the Korean War. The P-51 had been exported to 55 nations during and after the war, and it would see service in the Arab-Israeli conflicts, various brushfire wars in Central and South America, and in the Philippines. The last F-51 in U.S. service (ironically, U.S. Army service) did not leave until 1968, while the Dominican Republic operated P-51s as frontline fighters until 1984. Out of over 16,700 P-51s produced, over 250 survive today, with nearly 140 flyable examples, making the P-51s among the best-preserved World War II-era aircraft types ever.
Meet the fastest piston-engined aircraft in the world! "Voodoo" started life as BuNo 44-73415, a P-51D delivered to the USAAF at the tail end of WWII. In 1951, it was supplied to the RCAF and flew with an unknown Canadian unit until 1959. When 44-73415 was retired, it was bought by a warbird collector and would go through the hands of several owners between 1959 and 1994, suffering two accidents in the meantime. In 1994, it was modified with a new, far more streamlined fuselage and smaller canopy and entered the racing circuit at Reno as "Pegasus." In 1998, "Pegasus" was bought by another famous racer, Bob Button, and renamed "Voodoo."
"Voodoo" would fly at several Reno Air Race events in the Unlimited Class, but it wasn’t until 2013 that it won, with Steve Hinton at the controls. It won again in 2014 and 2016. In 2017, however, Button and Hinton set their sights on another trophy: the title of fastest piston-engine aircraft. In September of that year in Challis, Idaho, Hinton set the record at 554 mph, with an average speed of 531 mph. With no more worlds to conquer, it was decided to retire "Voodoo," and the aircraft was donated to Planes of Fame in 2018. "Voodoo"/44-73415 is still flyable, and even though her racing days are numbered, she continues to wow the crowds at numerous airshows throughout the state.
Pic By Pammy
Black n White
Reflecting upon history, things of the past that cannot change.
Self-inflicted torture, the everlasting pain of revisited experiences of yesterday.
Walking backwards through life ever dwelling on the uncontrollable.
Perception of hope withers to bitter disillusionment.
Ahead lies an unbeaten path, a road yet un-traveled, free from the wreckage of the trail behind.
A choice at hand, freedom or chains?
Embrace the hope of a new day.
Cast off the shackles of haunted memories.
Embrace the Beauty of healing love and redemption.
Embrace a new beginning.
Leave behind all fear and trembling.
Embrace the glory that overshadows remembrance-borne misery.
Memories that once tore the soul apart, sealed away in a whitewashed history.
No longer strangled by a hopeless outlook.
Embrace the beauty of a new beginning.
Embrace the gift of grace and mercy.
My friend Jin just translated what the sign on the light says, it is amazing.
Jin says,
"translation of the lighted advertisement in the photo: NEW! First on the earth! Professor Beef Tripe. Toilet bowl to be destroyed! Skin to glow! Body to recharge! The collaboration between octopus and beef tripe. Whole Octopus & Assorted Beef Tripe. Caution: Add to it the leeks & Raspberry Wine, for uncontrollable impacts!"
Teresa, Sassy, Melrose and Adam
[Continuation of New Kid On The Block, Pt. 2 & Rolling In The Deep, Pt. 2]
[Adam bursts into the office and wrestles Melrose off of Sassy]
A. --- I got her! ...Are you alright?
M. --- Let go of me!
S. --- [catching her breath she says...] Ohmygosh...
[Teresa makes her way inside the office]
T. ---- Sassy! Are you okay? What happened?
S. --- She attacked me.
M. --- [trying to break free from Adam, kicking and screaming she yells out...] No! No! No!...
S. ---- She just snapped. She was trying to take my blouse. It was crazy, it just...
M. --- No! No! No!.... [she continues to scream]
A. --- Calm down!
S. --- Thank you ...so much! I don't know what I would have done if you weren't here. I don't know what's wrong with her ...She needs help.
M. --- No! No! No!.....
T. --- Melrose, calm down.
M. --- No! [she begins to weep and sob uncontrollably] That's mine! It's all mine!
A. --- You've gotta calm down, okay?
T. --- No... [she says in a soft voice] this is Sassy's.
[Melrose goes silent. She stands there as still as a statue. Then slowly, her eyes turn to Teresa]
M. --- [she yells directly in her face...] I AM SASSY!
_____
It's almost over! Only two scenes to go... the F2K, Vol. 7 finale is this Friday (March 29th)
In the image above, the individual in the vivid orange survival suit, with fully-inflated lifejacket, dangles from a strop between two warships travelling on a parallel course about 100 feet apart. He is about to be collected by one of Nottingham's crew. He is part of a demonstration, showing a large array of spectators aboard HMS Nottingham (some of whom can be seen on the bridge wing and lounging aft of the missile system) how to transfer personnel quickly between ships whilst remaining underway (and without the expense of firing up the petrol pigeon [helicopter] on the stern!).
The light jackstay is the rope upon which he and everything around him is suspended. This is normally a four-inch manila rope, which has been passed across from us to Nottingham and tensioned before he is suspended from the traveller block, which is the metal feature that is running along the manila rope.
Of the two lower ropes attached to the traveller, the one on the left is the inhaul, which is used by us to pull the traveller back to us after the transfer is completed, either to stow the rig or to commence another transfer. The lower rope on the right is the outhaul. It is the means by which the individual is being pulled across to Nottingham. Manpower is the entire motive power in this evolution.
A key skill in this evolution is ensuring the gap between the ships remains as steady as possible during the evolution. If they get too close, the jackstay sags and the individual may get his feet (or more!) wet. There is also the risk of the ships being affected by fluid dynamics which effectively results in them being affected by the flow of water between them and being sucked together, resulting in their sides colliding.
If one of the ships loses power or steering during an evolution like this, both ships have practiced emergency procedures for cutting away the ropes and the one still with power/steering turning away to avoid the uncontrollable vessel. This might result in the individual being transferred ending up in the water on his own, leading to a man-overboard situation...
This demonstration was conducted during the 1986 Staff College Sea Days in the English Channel, where the students at the Army, Navy and Air Force Staff Colleges got a day at sea to see all sorts of evolutions and activities aboard warships.
The missile system on Nottingham's focsle is, of course, the Hawker Siddeley Dynamics GWS30 Sea Dart medium-range SAM, probably a Mod 1 variant, which (according to Wikipedia) had an operational range of some 74 km, theoretical ceiling of 10,000m and a top speed of Mach 2+. The blue booster is clearly visible.
Scanned from a negative.
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One of the most obnoxious, invasive, uncontrollable aquatic pests in fresh water bodies all over the tropical and semi-tropical regions of the world.
Remains in the Top 100 list of the Global Invasive Species Database;
www.issg.org/database/species/List.asp
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Water Hyacinth Flower
Eichhornia crassipes
Family Pontederiaceae
The Ghosh Grove, Rockledge, Florida, USA.
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I think all art is about control - the encounter between control and the uncontrollable.
- Richard Avedon
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