View allAll Photos Tagged Unexpressed
it is plain, old-fashioned ingratitude :-)
Robert Brault
HGGT!!
cornus, dogwood blossom, sarah p duke gardens, duke university, durham, north carolina
it is plain, old-fashioned ingratitude :-)
Robert Brault
HPPT!! thank you all for your visits, kind words and friendship!
hybrid camellia, 'Yume', j c raulston arboretum, ncsu, Raleigh, north carolina
The Rose by LeAnn Rimes
The song means many things to many people.
For me it represents a life not lived, the regret, the fear, the loss of opportunities to be able to be who we truly are.
In a world of suffering, deprivation of liberties, many souls come into this world with unexpressed soul desires to fulfill and never get to see their dreams fulfilled - that is the tragedy of humanity.
It's the heart afraid of breaking, not just in love but in fear of retribution of who they might actually be or want to be in this world.
This is dedicated to you for what ever this song might mean to you. ♥
See my "About" page on Flickr for the link to support my efforts... just the price of a cup of coffee is appreciated. Thank you. www.flickr.com/people/jax_chile/
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Thanks for your visit, FAVs, and comments, I truly appreciate it.
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© Fotografía de John B
© John B Fotografía
© John Edward Bankson
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Flores de Santa Gemita - 09-2022 - Enhanced-9 (3)
no rules, no limitations, no boundaries it's like an art
All Rights Reserved by ajpscs
The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched.
They must be felt with the heart .
- Helen Keller -
See my "About" page on Flickr for the link to support my efforts... just the price of a cup of coffee is appreciated. Thank you. www.flickr.com/people/jax_chile/
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Thanks for your visit, FAVs, and comments, I truly appreciate it.
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This image may not be reproduced or used in any form whatsoever without my express written permission.
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© Fotografía de John B
© John B Fotografía
© John Edward Bankson
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Rosas de Santa Gemita - 051522 - Enhanced-4
The Moments
The unassuming moments
unguarded and unplanned
those that erupt
in fits of pleasure most simple
a smile, a laugh, a look
a shared thought
silence
these are the moments we grasp onto
holding fast to the experience
to the rise of emotion
the rise of delight
unexpressed.
Kumari
are destructive.
عن معاذ رضي الله عنه قال : سمعت رسول الله صلى الله عليه و سلم يقول
قال الله تبارك و تعالى : وجبت محبتي للمتحابين فيّ ، و المتجالسين فيّ و المتزاورين ، و المتباذلين فيّ
One of my artworks for the past exhibition COLORS OF DARKNESS at Sinful Retreat.
The artworks are showed now at my new Art Gallery THE EDGE
Thanks to my partner Eli Medier for his poem:
"Dark matter attractive
Dark energy repulsive
Dark DNA almost the whole
ancestral junk
or unexpressed powers?
The Alpha and the Omega
as low as above
the ancient alchemical secret
so said Hermes the thrice great
Meanwhile my soul
or what resembled it
floated into another life
dialoguing with a being
a stone's throw from me
across a sidereal distance"
© Eli Medier
See my "About" page on Flickr for the link to support my efforts... just the price of a cup of coffee is appreciated. Thank you. www.flickr.com/people/jax_chile/
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Thanks for your visit, FAVs, and comments, I truly appreciate it.
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This image may not be reproduced or used in any form whatsoever without my express written permission.
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© Fotografía de John B
© John B Fotografía
© John Edward Bankson
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Flores de Santa Gemita - 041422 - Enhanced (2)-8
See my "About" page on Flickr for the link to support my efforts... just the price of a cup of coffee is appreciated. Thank you. www.flickr.com/people/jax_chile/
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Thanks for your visit, FAVs, and comments, I truly appreciate it!
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This image may not be reproduced or used in any form whatsoever without my express written permission.
All rights reserved.
© Fotografía de John B
© John Edward Bankson
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Rosas de Santa Gemita - 122321 - Enhanced-4
_____
The Last Word is an invitation to share thoughts left unsaid. Thousands of tightly rolled pieces of paper, dyed red on one end and left untouched on the other offer an opportunity to anonymously complete your conversations or explore the unexpressed sentiments of others.
By Illegal Art
This morning we visited Lakeside Park in Kitchener with Kitchener-Waterloo Queer birders. I had this amazing photo op with this splendid little warbler.
I typically do not try to photograph wildlife because I have an inadequate old lens and I'd rather spend time in nature simply observing. With birds especially, a camera often just gets in the way. However, he posed so perfectly, and I just happened to have camera in hand with the old zoom lens mounted.
For me this is better than winning the lottery. I'd have been foolish to pass up the chance. Honestly, in my vague, unexpressed dreams of doing good wildlife photography, it seems like the bird perching in my imagination has always been a Northern parula, thought I've never even had such a good look at one before: flighty, energetic, tiny birds high in the trees. So forgive the low resolution. This photo would have been on my bucket list if I'd had the confidence to include it. Sometimes life just gives you these joys.
Thank you to everyone who visits, faves, and comments.
To know someone here or there with whom you can
feel there is understanding in spite of distances or
thoughts unexpressed - that can make this life a garden.
- Goethe
LIP-TOUCH
Gesture. 1. A brief or sustained tactile stimulation of the supersensitive fleshy folds around the mouth. 2. A touch delivered to one or both lips with the knuckles, fingers, or tactile pads of the fingertips, or with an object (e.g., a pencil or pen) held in the hands.
Usage: One of our most common self-touch cues, the lip-touch signals a variety of moods and mental states including anxiety, boredom, excitement, fear, horror, and uncertainty. Stimulating the lips diverts attention, e.g., from a. disturbing thoughts and b. people who may upset us. As a self-consoling gesture, the lip-touch is equivalent to infantile thumb-sucking. (!!!!!!)
Observation. In a conversation, cross-examination, or interview, the lip-touch marks a nonverbal probing point, i.e., an unexpressed feeling, opinion, or thought to be explored.
RESEARCH REPORTS: 1. With adult strangers, girls show more hand-to-mouth gestures than boys (Stern and Bender 1974:245). 2. At 3-to-6 months, babies bring most objects to the mouth to be touched and explored (Chase and Rubin 1978:186).
Neuro-notes. Touching the mouth is emotionally analgesic (i.e., helps relieve physical and psychic pain). Our brain's cerebral neocortex devotes a disproportionately large part of its surface area to fingers, hands, and lips (see HOMUNCULUS). In the mind's eye, pressing "huge" fingertips against "enormous" lips is an efficient form of acupressure.
touching my lips on 50% of my selfportraits - that's pretty interesting... ;)
"To know someone here or there with whom you can
feel there is understanding in spite of distances or
thoughts unexpressed - that can make this life a garden."
- Goethe
This is a new perennial in my garden. The color, Chocolate- Orange seems surreal, rich in color, and highlights. Almost like a painting. I saw it from a distance at the nursery and decided it must have a home with me.
Have a good week! ; )
Sometimes I think that love is only for the lucky and strong...
Lots of emotions today, sad and sweet, and it's funny how one emotional thing leads to others tucked away inside and unexpressed for many days, weeks, months or years. The crying was cathartic as I ready myself for what lies ahead.
I don't know how I got myself so fucked up... but- doesn't matter- time to move on and deal with what can be dealt with, no matter how sharp that sword's pain will be.
You agitate me!
Our frozen cells
Hang where we left them
In the wordless air,
Connected to another
Perfect secret account
Of our lives,
Deep and unexpressed,
Easily bruised and broken,
Like a careless colour;
Red
Full
Stop
When we said that men are "endowed with certain inalienable rights, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," we did not pause to define "happiness." That is the unexpressed quality in our quest.
~RICHARD WRIGHT, Native Son
~Sometimes we let affection,
go unspoken
Sometime we let our love,
go unexpressed,
Sometimes we can't find words to tell
our feeling
Especially towards those we
Love best.~
Texture by: BeFunky
I really appreciate your visits and kind comments.
Special thanks to all who fave my work.
© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Use without permission is illegal
Me & my friend were walking
In the cold light of mourning.
Tears may blind the eyes but the soul is not deceived
In this world even winter ain't what it seems.
Here come the blue skies Here comes springtime.
When the rivers run high & the tears run dry.
When everything that dies.
Shall rise.
LoveLoveLove is stronger than death.
LoveLoveLove is stronger than death.
In our lives we hunger for those we cannot touch.
All the thoughts unuttered & all the feelings unexpressed
Play upon our hearts like the mist upon our breath.
But, awoken by grief, our spirits speak
"How could you believe that the life within the seed
that grew arms that reached
And a heart that beat.
And lips that smiled
And eyes that cried.
Could ever die?"
Here come the blue skies Here comes springtime.
When the rivers run high & the tears run dry.
When everything that dies.
Shall rise.
LoveLoveLove is stronger than death.
LoveLoveLove is stronger than death.
Shall rise. Shall rise.
Shall rise. Shall rise.
My apologies to this lovely poppy which was once pink, but after tinkering with levels, and special effects, I found this heavenly blue being inside.
I decided to set it free.
Sort of like humans. So much trapped inside us. So many special colors. Until a someone, somewhere comes along, and helps to set our colors free.
Until that happens, our special color, pertinent only to us, remains trapped and unexpressed. Sad, really. Wistful. Yearning to be set free.
Blessings,
Sheree
Me and my friend we're walking
In the cold light of mourning
Tears may blind the eyes but the soul is not deceived
In this world even winter ain't what it seems
Here come the blue skies
Here comes the springtime
When the rivers run high & the tears run dry
When everything that dies
Shall rise
Love is stronger than death
In our lives we hunger
For those we cannot touch.
All the thoughts unuttered and all the feelings unexpressed
Play upon our hearts like the mist upon our breath
But, awoken by grief, our spirits speak
How could you believe that the life within the seed
that grew arms that reached
And a heart that beat
And lips that smiled
And eyes that cried
Could ever die?
El amor es más fuerte que la muerte
40 days
.
“Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.”
Sigmund Freud
In this image, the real world dissolves, making way for an almost ethereal and dreamlike atmosphere. The mist envelops every contour, creating a sense of suspension where time and space seem frozen in an eternal uncertainty. The horizon disappears into nothingness, like the faded boundaries of a memory.
At the center of the composition, a solitary swan glides silently on the water, an elegant shadow navigating this realm of fog. Its presence evokes a sense of calm, but also a deep uncertainty, a soul seeking its path in an undefined landscape. The dark silhouette of the stretched neck and the bright body seem to be the incarnation of desire, the silent and powerful urge to break free from this ethereal limbo.
It is the snapshot of an aspiration, that desire to leave by flying away, to take flight beyond the curtain of steam that blurs reality, towards a horizon of freedom and clarity yet unexpressed. The image is a visual poem that speaks directly to the soul, a daydream where mystery and hope merge into a single, touching black and white shot.
In questa immagine, il mondo reale si dissolve, lasciando spazio a un'atmosfera quasi eterea e onirica. La foschia avvolge ogni contorno, creando un senso di sospensione dove il tempo e lo spazio sembrano congelati in un'eterna incertezza. L'orizzonte scompare nel nulla, come i confini sbiaditi di un ricordo.
Al centro della composizione, un cigno solitario scivola silenzioso sull'acqua, un'ombra elegante che naviga in questo regno di nebbia. La sua presenza evoca un senso di quiete, ma anche una profonda incertezza, un'anima che cerca la sua strada in un paesaggio indefinito. La sagoma scura del collo teso e il corpo luminoso sembrano l'incarnazione del desiderio, l'urgenza silenziosa e potente di liberarsi da questo limbo etereo.
È l'istantanea di un'aspirazione, quella voglia di uscire volando via, di spiccare il volo oltre la cortina di vapore che offusca la realtà, verso un orizzonte di libertà e chiarezza ancora inespresso. L'immagine è una poesia visiva che parla direttamente all'animo, un sogno ad occhi aperti dove il mistero e la speranza si fondono in un unico, toccante scatto in bianco e nero.
it is plain, old-fashioned ingratitude :-)
Robert Brault
zinnia, sarah p duke gardens, duke university, durham, north carolina
The song of the frogs
Your fear should not stop my hands
when a caress is near my fingertips
ready to explode crossing your hair
like a far firework, the echo of a lost holiday,
the remind of a past happy joyful time.
Your interrogative eyes should not
stare at me like I was the foulest of all fools
the one that does not know the weight
of the intrinsic value of a blast of words
said just in a moment to be left in the wind.
Heavy inheritance of a world of illusions and
disillusions, all covered with the lightness
of a not hidden superficiality of aims and hopes.
Come here, come here summer of despair !
light of dead drunk fireflies all around escaping
when a stone falls in the pond with a deaf sound.
Do you hear the frogs singing their dissonant song?
You so close yet so distant, caring at times
but always closed in your own mystery.
Come here, come here don’t leave me waiting
In the middle of the seagulls’ noisy meal.
My half lifted hand insecure in a caress,
withdraws in its mortified attempt.
I do not try to understand the reasons
I do not wonder anymore and yet I am hurt,
I should not but I can’t help a subtle pain,
crawling sneaky along my veins,
coward, when I am absent minded
reaching for my heart and there stopping,
stubborn catching my breath
and taking my words away.
And you , you observe me with your
inquisitive glance like I was something exotic
coming from outer worlds and from outer galaxies,
with my charge of ironic too subtle humor
and unexpressed enigmatic poetry.
Come here, come here months of lazy intimacy,
talking like we were the only ones on this earth,
like we were the only ones to share a secret.
The unveiled truths of a cheap honesty,
the last mirror to seize the real look
of a thousand remodeled fake beauties.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie. Lettice is visiting her old family home for the wedding of Leslie to Arabella, the daughter of their neighbours, Lord Sherbourne and Lady Isobel Tyrwhitt. Today is the big day, and as the weakening November sun rises in what is a remarkably sunny day for the bride and groom, Lettice will shortly join the guests to watch her brother and his future wife exchange vows at the chapel in Glynes village. Even now she can hear the chimes from the belfry ring across the rolling green undulations of Lettice’s father’s estate, calling the great and good of the village and the county to come and bear witness to the wedding of their future squire.
We find ourselves in Lettice’s boudoir at Glynes, a room which she considers somewhat of a time capsule now with its old fashioned Edwardian furnishings and mementoes of those halcyon pre-war summers. She hardly even considers it her room any more, so far removed is she from that giddy teenager who had crushes on her elder brothers’ friends and loved chintz covered furniture, floral wallpaper and sweet violet perfume. Lettice stands at the window of her bedroom, lolling against the dusky pink and pale green, slightly faded floral folded back curtains. Even as she stands there she can almost catch a whiff the violet perfume and hear her girlish whispers and giggles of yesteryear, like ghosts of a distant time and place. Beyond her in the great park, some stubborn traces of morning mist still loiter around a copse of trees, and the birds twitter in the topiaries and the parterre garden that lie beyond the sweeping gravel turning circle of driveway. Fingering the fine lace curtain that is always draped across the glass of her window, Lettice sighs. A pale, diffused light falls upon her face, the sunlight warming her cheeks. She closes her eyes, blocking out the cheerful golden gleam in the pale blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds tinged with pale grey and washed out ultramarine.
“Were you imagining the bells ringing for your wedding, Tice?” a voice interrupts her thoughts.
“Oh!” Lettice gasps, spinning around, dropping the curtain pulled back idly in her hands, releasing a myriad of dust motes tumbling into the sunlight streaming through the window. “Leslie! You startled me!”
“Sorry Tice.” her elder brother says, as he walks into the room.
“Look at you, my big brother,” Lettice smiles proudly. “All dressed up for his wedding day.”
“I feel ridiculously overdressed.” Leslie says, running a finger around the inside of his starched collar uncomfortably.
She walks up to Leslie and tweaks his bow tie that he has knocked awry with his fingering of his collar before taking a step back and taking in her handsome brother dressed in his new morning suit.
“You never did like dressing up for fancy occasions like Mamma’s Hunt Ball, did you, Leslie?” she asks.
“Never. Give me a tweed jacket and tie any day.”
“Oh no Leslie!” Lettice chides, not unkindly. “Not today. It’s your wedding day, and even our tenant farmers who would rather be in the comfort of their workaday clothes get dressed up for their wedding.”
“I feel…” he begins.
“Sshhh!” Lettice puts one of her elegantly manicured fingers to his lips to silence her brother. “Today isn’t really about you and your feelings, Leslie. It’s about Bella. And Bella would be so disappointed if you weren’t turned out as splendidly as you are.” She considers his appearance, as if seeing him for the first time. “You know, it’s a shame you don’t like getting dressed up. You really scrub up rather handsomely. I can see what Bella saw beneath all that tweed and houndstooth you habitually wear.”
“Need to wear, for estate business.” Leslie corrects his sister. “Imagine the distrust if I turned up at one of the estate farms or a meeting of the tenants dressed in something like this! They’d think I didn’t understand a thing about farming.”
“Well, today is not about farming.” Lettice replies kindly. “It’s about pomp and show from two of the county’s great families, and no-one does pomp quite as well as the Chetwynds and the Tyrwhitts.”
“Were you thinking about a wedding of your own just now, listening to the bells?” Leslie asks again.
“Me? No,” Lettice replies. “The bells aren’t tolling for me yet.” She brushes a stray piece of lint off his frock coat. “No,” she adds dreamily. “I was just thinking about how often before the war I used to stand at the window, longing to be in the wider world.”
“And now you’re a part of it.”
“Indeed.” Lettice muses contentedly. “I was considering how much has changed since then.”
“Ahh yes, those halcyon days before the war.” Leslie sighs.
“I think before the war was the last time we were all in the house together: you, me, Lally and Lionel, Mater and Pater. One big, happy family.”
Leslie scoffs. “Is that what we were?”
“No,” Lettice admits. “Lionel has always courted trouble and caused us pain, long before he had to go to Kenya in disgrace. Do you remember how much he enjoyed teasing Lally and I when we were children?”
“Relentlessly.” Leslie sighs. “Especially you. Yet you two are the closest in age and should have been best friends. He always did have a beastly, nasty streak.”
“And you had to come and defend us.”
“Endlessly! Kenya might agree with his health, but Lionel’s still as mean and nasty now as he was then.”
“Oh yes. I’m well aware of that. We all are. Even Mater and Pater are acutely aware of it since it’s been so nice doing without it for the last few years. Who will defend me now or hold me in a special place in his heart, now that you are getting married, and I will be usurped by Bella for your affections?”
“You’ll always have a special place in my heart, mon petite soeur!” Leslie laughs. “You of all people should know that! You’re my baby sister. Eldest brothers always have special places in their hearts for their little sisters. Anyway, I thought things were going well between you and Spencely.”
“Oh they are, they are.” Lettice says distractedly.
“Then surely there is a place in his heart, a special place, just for you.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Lettice says as she turns away from her brother and walks over to the floral chaise lounge on which sit her new Harriet Milford made hat, her lemon yellow gloves and her matching handbag.
“You have doubts as to Spencely’s affections, Tice?” Leslie looks to his sister in concern.
“Oh no!” she assures him. “I’m sure he’s fond of me. It’s just…”
“Yes?” Leslie’s eyebrows arch over his questioning eyes.
“It’s just that I haven’t even met his parents yet. Surely you would think if he was serious about our romance and our future together that he would introduce me to his parents.”
“Have you asked him, Tice?”
“Several times, but Selwyn always dismisses it with a wave of his hand. He says I’ll get to meet them in the fullness of time. Surely after all these months, it’s time, even if we don’t get married yet. It’s a sign of intent.”
Leslie thinks for a moment. “The Duke and Duchess of Walmford.” He ponders. “I can’t say I know anything much about them, what with being buried in estate business. The social round is more Mater’s thing than mine.”
“Oh I can read all I want to in Debrett’s*, every bit as easily as Mamma can: names, dates of birth, clubs, lineage, pedigree. That isn’t meeting someone.”
“True.”
“I just have this nagging feeling in the back of my mind, and it curdles my stomach whenever I raise the moot point between us.”
“You don’t think he’s a bounder, do you? Spencely’s never struck me as being a cad. In fact, I always thought he was rather decent when it came to the ladies, especially when you consider that London’s society ballrooms are full of men like Lionel, whose predatory advances towards the fairer sex aren’t bundled off to Nairobi for society’s greater good like Pappa and Mamma did with him.”
“For all our good.” Lettice corrects him. She looks down at the oriental carpet beneath their feet, rich and exotic, yet also sadly worn and faded in places. A troubled look crosses her pale face. “It’s not actually Selwyn that troubles me. It’s his mother.”
“Lady Zinnia?”
“Yes. Do you remember her when we, well when I was little, and they used to come here for the hunt? You are ten years older than me. I can only vaguely remember a grumpy woman in black dragging Selwyn away from me after she caught us playing in the hedgerows together. Selwyn said that he received a dreadful tongue lashing from her, and there was no puddng for him that night. What was she like?”
“Well, it’s hard to say.”
“You don’t remember her?”
“Oh I do, but then you also have all the mythology about her wrapping around her and obscuring my memories of her.”
“What mythology, Leslie?”
“Oh just that she was a beauty of the age, a glacial, imperious beauty who was born to be the Duchess of Walmsford. I remember the photos of her in Mamma’s copies of The Tatler**, The Lady***, Country Life**** and Horse and Hound*****. Except for the latter she was always dressed in the most elegant gowns, dripping in diamonds, a tiara atop her head, entertaining the country’s great and good at one of their estates or another. It clouds what you remember.”
“Did she speak to you?”
“I’m sure she did. I can’t say as I remember, but I was only a teenage boy. She wouldn’t have been interested in me. My presence would barely have even registered with her.” He takes his right hand to his chin and rubs it with his index finger as he thinks. “Although one thing I do remember quite clearly about her was her laugh.”
“Well, that’s more than I remember Leslie. I just remember this sort of dull impressionistic like face screaming at me. What was it like that you remember it?”
“It was like breaking glass: not shrill, beautiful, but cruel. Now, when I think back on those occasions as an adult and being more worldly, if you can call working on the estate worldly, I think she flirted with men at the hunt a lot.”
“But she was married to the Duke then, wasn’t she?”
“The Duke didn’t always come, for whatever reason, and when he didn’t, she flirted with all the men, married or otherwise. I suppose being friends with Alice Keppel******, she was part of King Edward’s racy Sandringham set where flirtations, and more,” He blushes self-consciously. “Were de riguer*******. I think she liked being a great beauty and having men, all sorts of powerful and influential men, in her thrall.”
“And ladies?”
“I don’t seem to remember her spending a great deal of time with the ladies when she visited us. I don’t think she was a drawing room type, like Mamma is, dunking dry biscuits in tea and gossiping over embroidery. She liked witty people, men especially. I think the company of most women bored her as I don’t think she cared for gossip, especially not county gossip which she considered parochial. I remember she liked talking about politics and art: things as a young teenager I had no head for, and if I’m honest, I still don’t. I’m just your dull parochial country squire. Give me a cattle show or hunt meet over the Houses of Parliament any day.”
“Stop that Leslie!” Lettice admonishes him with a gentle slap to his forearm. “You’re a fine man. The world isn’t made up entirely of politicians and great thinkers. Bella’s lucky to have a man as loving, kind and caring as you.” She smiles at her brother. “But go on about Lady Zinnia.”
“Lady Zinnia.” Leslie thinks. “She was clever, and she enjoyed making the men laugh. Engaging with men was almost like a sport to her. Even when we went on the foxhunt, she was out in front with the men. She was an excellent horsewoman and could keep up with the head of the pack, even though she rode side-saddle. She was spirited. Yes,” Leslie nods. “That’s a good word for her. She was spirited. Why all this sudden interest in Lady Zinnia, Tice?”
“Because I think she is the problem between Selwyn and I, or at least the obstacle to us actually getting married and being happily together.” Lettice admits. “I don’t think she likes me, or she doesn’t approve of me.”
“But you just said yourself that she’s never met you, well not since you were a child. How can you say she doesn’t like or approve of you if she’s never met you as an adult?”
“I can’t quite pinpoint it, but that’s what I sense, Leslie.”
“That’s a very grave allegation, Tice.” Leslie’s face clouds over. “What proof do you have?”
“I don’t have any, really,” Lettice admits guiltily. “But it’s just something I feel, here in the pit of my stomach. It’s like a canker, sitting there.”
“You must have more to go on than that in order to feel this way, surely Tice.”
“Well, take today for example. I asked Selwyn to come, but apparently his family is entertaining his Uncle Bertram and Aunt Rosalind, the Fox-Chavers, at their Scottish estate, Kenmarric.”
“Well to be fair, Tice, if he hasn’t made formal overtures of marriage, it’s really not appropriate for him to attend as your guest. Besides it is partridge season, Tice.”
“Yes, I know.” Lettice admits with a huff. “But it seems that whenever we seem to be making a bit of progress, plan something special beyond a dinner or a picnic, something always comes up.” She rubs a worn patch of the rug distractedly at her feet with the toe of her golden yellow leather shoe. “And it usually involves his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers.”
“I’ve not heard of her.”
“She hasn’t been presented yet. Apparently, she debuts next year. There is to be a rather grand coming out ball for her in London at the Cecil********. She’s young and pretty from what I’ve gathered.”
“Tice! Tice!” Leslie puts his hands firmly on Lettice’s sunken shoulders, squeezing them comfortingly through the lemon satin capped sleeves of the frock Gerald made for her for the wedding. She looks up into her brother’s face unhappily. “It sounds to me like you’re making something up out of… well, where there is nothing.”
“I knew you’d say that, Leslie.” Lettice pouts as she sticks her toe into the silk of the rug.
“Don’t do that, or you’ll wear a hole in it. As the future master of Glynes and all the expenses that go with it, I don’t want to have to replace the carpet unnecessarily.”
“Oh no,” Lettice stops rubbing the carpet and looks back into her brother’s face, a sudden steeliness replacing the soft and teary vulnerability in her eyes a moment ago. “I want you to promise me that when you inherit Glynes, one of the first things you will do is let me redecorate my boudoir.” She looks around her at the Eighteenth Century floral wallpaper, the heavy Art Nouveau dressing table, the chintz chaise lounge. “Mamma keeps this room as a mausoleum. It’s like by keeping it exactly as I left it before the war, the more obliging, more obsequious, less irritating, less outspoken Lettice of my teenage years will come back. But she won’t! Do you know that none of those photos on the chimneypiece, except perhaps the one of Nanny Webb and I, are my photos in here? I took all mine to London when I moved there. Mamma put these in here to fill the space. She even put that one of me as a flower girl at Lally’s wedding in pride of place on that table, just to remind me of what a dutiful daughter I was. There is nothing of me in this room now. Nothing!”
“Alright, Tice,” Leslie chuckles. “I agree. But only if you’ll put these silly ideas of Lady Zinnia trying to come between you and Spencely out of your mind.” He looks earnestly at her. “It’s not uncommon for an older male cousin to escort his younger female cousin to functions and social engagements prior to her coming out. This, what’s her name?”
“Pamela,” Lettice spits. “Pamela Fox-Chavers.”
“Pamela will benefit from knowing someone at the balls and other functions of the Season that she is to attend. As I said before, Spencely strikes me as a good egg when it comes to the ladies, so he’ll help keep her safe, advise her about the SITs and NSITs*********, and probably stop her from getting into mischief. Don’t get jealous of a girl whom you don’t even know, and whom I’m sure you’ve no reason to be jealous of. You tell me I’m handsome and smart, well,” He spins her around to face a full length cheval mirror where she can see her reflection. “Look at yourself. You are beautiful and petite. You are smart. You live your own life up in London, away from Mater and Pater, which is more than a lot of girls of your age and background have. And you have a very successful business, which you created – no-one else. Think on that the next time you go to give me a compliment. You’re the most successful of all of us. Lionel lives as a rake in disgrace in Nairobi where he can do no harm other than drink too much gin or race a few thoroughbreds that really aren’t ready to be raced. Lally is married to a nice, if dull chap, and has brought forth a few progeny to carry on Charles’ line. I’ll inherit this old pile of bricks and pray I can weather the storm and keep it all going so that one of Bella’s and my progeny can take over when I’m gone. But you, you leave a legacy of beautiful interiors that are your own distinctive style. You influence taste and fashions. You are one of those Bright Young Things********** the papers are full of, and whom the world will talk about long after I’m buried and forgotten in that churchyard.” He points out the window, across the undulating hill to where the sound of the bells is coming from.
“Do you really think that, Leslie?” Lettice asks.
“Well of course I do, Tice.” he concurs. “We all do. Well, maybe not Mamma, and certainly not Lionel. But Lally, Father, Bella and I do, so we outnumber them. Nigel, Isobel and Sherbourne too. We’re all so proud of you. Even Mamma, though she would rather eat a pound of nails than say it, must have at least some unexpressed admiration for what you do and what you’ve achieved, Tice.”
“Leslie! Leslie there you are, old boy! Come on!” Lionel’s unusually suntanned face and sun bleached sandy blonde hair poke around the frame of Lettice’s dressing room door. “Oh, morning, Lettuce Leaf.” He nods to his little sister as an afterthought.
Lettice cringes at the use of her most hated childhood nickname, which is tolerable, or even amusing on occasion when said by her best friend Gerald, but like poison spat at her when it comes from her hated sibling.
“Look I hate to break this tender moment of sibling bonding between you two up.” Their brother sneers mockingly at them from beneath his mean sun blonde pencil moustache, mischief in his cold, glinting eyes. “I mean, it really is charming and all, but I’d like to remind you Leslie, that the car is waiting downstairs and the bells toll. Listen, can’t you hear them?” Dressed in his morning suit with a boutonniere of a white rose and some Queen Anne’s lace sticking from his lapel, he poses dramatically, lolling against the doorframe, a hand held to his ear as he perks up and peers through Lettice’s window into the bright morning beyond.
“Bugger off Lionel, you pillock!” growls Leslie warningly. “You’re only here for a few days. Pray you don’t leave with broken teeth.”
“Alright!” Lionel holds up his hands in defence. “Don’t shoot, or punch me.” He sneers again. “I’m just the messenger. Mater and Pater are downstairs with your best man, Leslie, and he’s getting anxious that his sister is going to arrive at the church to get married before you two do. The olds are trying to placate him, so I’d shake a leg and get a move on, if I were you.”
Smiling smarmily, Lionel slinks away, leaving Lettice and Leslie alone again.
“Look, I have to go, but, but we’ll talk later, Tice, alright?” Leslie assures his sister.
“No we won’t,” Lettice says, smiling sadly and reaching up to her favourite brother’s boutonniere, running her fingers along the soft silken petal of the white rose buds. “Not today at any rate.” She pats his arm comfortingly. “We both may hate Lionel, but even though I’d rather eat a pound of nails than say it, he’s right. The bells are chiming, and you’re getting married. I can’t hold you up from the most important moment of your life, and Bella would never speak to me again if I did. Off you go.”
“Tice,” Leslie begins, a hundred unfinished thoughts catching in his voice.
“I’ll be alright. I have Gerald to escort me this afternoon.” She smiles as she sees a mixture of anxiety and excitement in his eyes. “Just tell Mamma I’m fixing my hat and I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Alright, Tice.” He starts to leave. “I’ll see you in the chapel then.”
“Just try and stop me,” she replies with a smile. “It isn’t every day my big brother gets married. Now go, before Nigel has an aneurism on the drawing room carpet.”
With the pattering of hurried footsteps, Leslie disappears around the frame of the door and runs down the hall.
Lettice picks up her hat and walks over to her dressing table where she withdraws one of the long hatpins in the container standing on its surface. Carefully positioning her pretty lemon yellow straw hat with organza and artificial flower decoration against her straw yellow blonde chignon and affixes it with the hatpin. She listens to the crisp sound of the pin piercing the straw of her hat and feels the pin slide through the back of her hair. She tugs the brim gently, just to make sure her millinery is firmly in place and sighs as she considers her reflection. She admires her figure, expertly encased in the pale yellow satin frock with the Peter Pan collar*********** Gerald has made for her for the wedding. The two strings of perfect graduating creamy white pearls her parents gave her for her coming of age sit across her collar bones and a corsage of white roses sits daintily on her wrist.
Satisfied, she wanders back to the window and looks down. Through the lace scrim, she can see Nigel Tyrwhitt, Leslie’s bride-to-be’s brother and his best man, walk across the gravel towards her father’s Daimler, followed closely by Leslie. The two talk, but with the window closed and being two storeys up, Lettice can’t hear what they are saying, but she catches a waft of their laughter through the glass and knows that whatever they are saying, they are very happy that Leslie is about to marry Arabella. In the distance, the Glynes Church of England chapel bells peal, beckoning guest to enter to witness the marriage of Arabella Tyrwhitt, only daughter of Lord Sherboune and Lady Isobel Tyrwhitt to Leslie Cheywnd, son and heir of the Viscount and Viscountess of Wrexham, forever enmeshing two of the county’s great families.
*The first edition of Debrett's Peerage of England, Scotland, and Ireland, containing an Account of all the Peers, 2 vols., was published in May 1802, with plates of arms, a second edition appeared in September 1802, a third in June 1803, a fourth in 1805, a fifth in 1806, a sixth in 1808, a seventh in 1809, an eighth in 1812, a ninth in 1814, a tenth in 1816, an eleventh in 1817, a twelfth in 1819, a thirteenth in 1820, a fourteenth in 1822, a fifteenth in 1823, which was the last edition edited by Debrett, and not published until after his death. The next edition came out in 1825. The first edition of The Baronetage of England, containing their Descent and Present State, by John Debrett, 2 vols., appeared in 1808. Today, Debrett's is a British professional coaching company, publisher and authority on etiquette and behaviour. It was founded in 1769 with the publication of the first edition of The New Peerage. The company takes its name from its founder, John Debrett.
**Tatler is a British magazine published by Condé Nast Publications focusing on fashion and lifestyle, as well as coverage of high society and politics. It is targeted towards the British upper-middle class and upper class, and those interested in society events.
***The Lady is one of Britain's longest-running women's magazines. It has been in continuous publication since 1885 and is based in London. The magazine was founded by Thomas Gibson Bowles (1842–1922), the maternal grandfather of the aristocratic and controversial Mitford sisters. Bowles also founded the English magazine Vanity Fair. He gave the Mitford girls' father (David Freeman-Mitford, Second Baron Redesdale) his first job: general manager of the magazine. Early contributors included Nancy Mitford and Lewis Carroll, who compiled a puzzle for the title
****Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.
*****Horse and Hound is the oldest equestrian weekly magazine of the United Kingdom. Its first edition was published in 1884. The magazine contains horse industry news, reports from equestrian events, veterinary advice about caring for horses, and horses for sale.
******Alice Frederica Keppel was a British society hostess and a long-time mistress and confidante of King Edward VII. Keppel grew up at Duntreath Castle, the family seat of the Edmonstone baronets in Scotland. She was the youngest child of Mary Elizabeth, née Parsons, and Sir William Edmonstone, 4th Baronet. In 1891 she married George Keppel, an army officer, and they had two daughters. Alice Keppel became one of the best society hostesses of the Edwardian era. Her beauty, charm and discretion impressed London society and brought her to the attention of the future King Edward VII in 1898, when he was still Prince of Wales, whose mistress she remained until his death, lightening the dark moods of his later years, and holding considerable influence. Through her younger daughter, Sonia Cubitt , Alice Keppel is the great-grandmother of Queen Camilla, the former mistress and second wife of King Edward VII's great-great-grandson King Charles III.
*******In French, de rigueur means "out of strictness" or "according to strict etiquette"; one definition of our word rigor, to which rigueur is related, is "the quality of being strict, unyielding, or inflexible." In English, we tend to use de rigueur to describe a fashion or custom that is so commonplace within a context that it seems a prescribed, mandatory part of it.
********The Hotel Cecil was a grand hotel built 1890–96 between the Thames Embankment and the Strand in London, England. It was named after Cecil House, a mansion belonging to the Cecil family, which occupied the site in the Seventeenth Century. The hotel was the largest in Europe when it opened, with more than eight hundred rooms. The proprietor, Jabez Balfour, later went bankrupt and was sentenced to 14 years in prison. The Royal Air Force was formed and had its first headquarters here in the former Hotel Cecil in 1918. During the 1920s, it was one of the most fashionable hotels in London and was filled with flappers and young men, representing the spirit of the Jazz Age. The hotel was largely demolished in 1930, and Shell Mex House now stands on its site.
*********SIT is the acronym for “safe in taxis” and NSIT is the acronym for “not safe in taxis”. These acronyms were used by debutantes and their mothers to refer to young men who could and couldn’t be trusted to escort a debutante home in a taxi without getting handsy. Some aristocratic mothers with daughters of a marriageable age being introduced into society kept a list of these young men and the debutantes themselves would avoid them.
**********The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.
***********A Peter Pan collar is a style of clothing collar, flat in design with rounded corners. It is named after the collar of Maude Adams's costume in her 1905 role as Peter Pan, although similar styles had been worn before this date. Peter Pan collars were particularly fashionable during the 1920s and 1930s.
Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so even though this story is set in that year, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society and whilst Lettice is fashionable, she and many other fashionable women still wore the more romantic picture hat. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch.
This pretty and very feminine Edwardian boudoir may appear like something out of a historical house display, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection and includes items from my childhood, as well as those I have collected as an adult.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Lettice’s yellow straw hat decorated with ornamental flowers, fruit and organza. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism such as these are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. The maker of this hat is unknown, but it is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. Lettice’s lemon yellow purse is also an artisan piece and is made of kid leather which is so soft. It is trimmed with very fine braid and the purse has a clasp made from a piece of earring. The matching lemon yellow gloves are made from the same soft kid leather. They came as a set from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The floral chintz chaise lounge with its scalloped end comes from Crooked Mile Cottage miniatures in America, whilst the dainty fringed footstool with its tiny rose and leaf pattern ribbon was hand upholstered by an artisan in England.
The silver dressing table set on the dressing table, consisting of mirror, brushes and a comb, as well as the tray on which the perfume bottle stand has been made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.
On the silver tray there is a selection of sparkling perfume bottles, which are handmade by an English artisan for the Little Green Workshop. Made of cut coloured crystals set in a gilt metal frames or using vintage cut glass beads they look so elegant and terribly luxurious. The faceted pink glass perfume bottle, made from an Art Deco bead came with the dressing table, which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop.
The dressing table chair did not come with the dressing table, although it does match nicely. Upholstered in a very fine pink satin, it was made by the high-end dolls’ house miniature furniture manufacturer, Bespaq.
The plaster fireplace and its metal grate come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The fire pokers and bellows I have had since I was a teenager and come from a high street stockist who specialised in dolls houses and doll house miniatures.
The Chetwynd family photos seen cluttering the mantlepiece are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each.
The porcelain clock on the mantlepiece is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The other vases in the room, except for the one containing the irises come from various online miniatures stockists.
Made of polymer clay that are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements, the very realistic looking blue irises are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The vase they stand in is a 1950s Limoges vase – one of a pair. Both are stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. These treasures I found in an overcrowded cabinet at the Mill Markets in Geelong. The pink roses on the dressing table and the cream roses on the round Regency occasional table come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
The tall Dutch style chest of drawers to the far right of the photo was one of the first pieces of miniature furniture I ever bought for myself. I chose it as payment for several figures I made from Fimo clay for a local high street toy shop when I was eight years old. All these years later, I definitely think I got the better end of the deal!
The oriental rug is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug and has been machine woven. The wallpaper is an Eighteenth Century chinoiserie design of white camellias. All the paintings on Lettice’s boudoir walls come from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.
They flew low over the beach---so many of them, darting through winds whipped by Hurricane Sandy's approach. I thought they'd eluded me with their swiftness, but here they lit and here they stood, resolute, until I could traverse the span of beach that stretched between us.
They were fearlessly planted. I imagined they might be part way through a journey, requiring their rest.
I am thankful for moments like this when everything seems to stand still...and I am allowed the pleasure of feeling it.
Today begins my 'gratitude project' for November. I have so much unexpressed gratitude. I like to take this month to focus on expressing just some of it.
You look at me with sad green eyes,
I'm overcome with feeling-
Such deep emotion they disguise,
Yet send my senses reeling;
They speak to me of loneliness
And feelings unexpressed,
Of hopes and dreams unrealized
And love gone uncaressed;
They cry to me of urgency
To experience it all-
But here you are in limbo
With your back against the wall;
I wish I had the answers
To the questions they impose-
I'm drowning in those sad green eyes
And the sorrow only grows;
If I had one magic wish,
You know what it would be?
To see instead of sad green eyes
Green eyes that smile for me.
(Linda Ori)
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Photography and editing: Me
Model: Giorgos
***PLEASE DO NOT USE MY PICTURES WITHOUT MY PERMISSION***
© Andreas Constantinou
Sagittarians are known for their broad vision, tolerant attitude, freedom-loving philosophical air, and generally jovial spirits. Their hearts and spirits are big; their outlook is liberal and forgiving; their style is colorful and noisy; their passion for life contagious.
Sagittarians are always planning for the future, thinking about a bigger tomorrow, and thus they tend not to worry about the here and now. They are blessed with fine intuition but can suffer through dismissing critical analysis as someone else's negative outlook; sanguine in the conviction that "all will work out well in the end."
This is a sign that rarely recognizes restrictions and certainly doesn't approve of limitations. Sagittarians adopt a "live and let live" philosophy that recoils from narrow mindedness. They have a natural dislike of all things "prim and proper" and will laugh in the face of supercilious morality. Just when everyone seems willing to take flight into collective self-congratulation and pretentiousness, the Sagittarian is there, ready to burst the hollow bubble with a painfully incisive reminder of the truth. This is honesty Sagittarian style - frank, blunt, and disquietingly valid.
The volatile influence of Mars can set their fiery light ablaze, and quite frankly no one enjoys a good all out scrap or verbal assault, no holds barred, like a Sagittarian does. Nor are many as quick to forgive and forget once the fiery moment has passed. There is no lingering malice or unexpressed resentment lurking among the ulterior motives of this sign.
There is a constant need for challenge, stimulation and freedom of expression and movement. This can produce restlessness in relationships and a lack of constant commitment in professions that call for mundane application. The Sagittarian has a well reputed love of travel and an urge for exploration that calls for adventure and space - physically, intellectually and emotionally. 'Stability' is a restriction, 'commitment' is a limitation. However, they pride themselves on having a firm moral basis and try to act with integrity. Although naturally flirty and attention-seeking, there is little reason to suspect them of being anything other than they admit they are. An ideal partner would be stable and quietly confident, unafraid to let them feel liberated in lifestyle and conduct. Possessiveness is abhorrent to them, jealousy dampens their spirits, and emotional confinement inevitably leads to rebellion.
There is great ambition and a constant striving towards growth and development, but one that incorporates the reality of loss. Theirs is an active engagement in the experimentation of life, and most Sagittarians who succeed have done so on a foundation that has probed the limits of disaster as well as triumph. Downfalls that affect this sign arise from becoming so enraptured in their own enthusiasm that they act without foresight; and pursuing a vision that exceeds the limits of reality. But even in suffering the Sagittarian copes better than most. All change is viewed as an opportunity for stimulation and renewed motivation.
Typically a lover of sport, the real issue for the Sagittarian is the need to react spontaneously and intuitively; to project the energies outwards and upwards. An instinct for acting first and thinking later necessarily brings inconstancy and risk, but the indefatigable Sagittarian is always "in there," playing the game, positioning themselves at the very heart of where the action is.
- Deborah Houlding (Skyscript)
FYI: No, it's not my birthday. That rolls around on November 30th. I'll be 40. Send gifts, money, and the appropriate well wishes to my home address THEN. Ha.
This is just a "shout out" to all of my Sag friends who share many of the same unique traits, and enjoy a very interesting ride through life.
__________________________________________________
If you can, please make a contribution towards the disaster relief efforts
in India and Pakistan (as well as continuing efforts in New Orleans and
Texas) by donating to the Red Cross/Red Crescent.
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[ o ]
As a way of returning the extraordinary generosity and support you
have all shown me in this great community, whenever I upload a new
pic or series of shots this year, I'll provide a link to another flickr
photog whose work, personality, or spirit I feel you should discover.
Visit and introduce yourself. Make a friend. Share the love.
Open your eyes to venus the muse today.
“There are times that the emotions we keep in our hearts, no matter how abundant, are better left unexpressed.”
- Jourdane Erasquin
......................................................................................................................................
Some days cries of helplessness are embedded in my brain.
Some days your indifference makes it hard for me to breathe.
Some days I have to swallow the fear, and face your words, your unexpressed and unsynchronized movements that say it all.
Some days, my brain can not tolerate the look in your eyes ...
Some days I have to swallow words and try my best to not drown in them.
...................................................................................................................................
A veces, los gritos de impotencia se me incrustan
en el cerebro.
A veces, las miradas rígidas no me dejan respirar.
A veces, los recuerdos amargos, tienen sabor.
A veces, tengo que tragarme el miedo
para no causar dolor.
A veces, las palabras sinceras,
los pensamientos no expresados,
los movimientos no sincronizados,
me lo dicen todo.
A veces, mi cerebro no puede tolerar
las miradas...
y los pensamientos escupidos los tengo
que tragar para no ahogarme.
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© All rights reserved. Use without permission is illegal
It is true! Life is all those things and more.
If you have many unsaid, unexpressed feelings taking up space in your life, say them out loud. Rejection is not as bad as regret, express your feelings. If you have not told your loved ones, your family, your friends that you love them, then go ahead do it right now. Hug them a lot, kiss them a lot and tell them you love them a lot. Life is short.
If you are hanging on to bitterness because somebody hurt you. Let it go, cause the only person getting affected by that is you. Let go of negative feelings, forgive and forget. Its not easy but channelize your negative feelings into something creative...art, music, sports, anything that can provide an outlet for them. Life is too beautiful.
If you are hurting somebody, cheating, taking them for granted. Maybe you should stop and think and change while you have a chance. Respect others especially those you love. Honesty, integrity, transparency, loyalty, respect, these are not just words, they actually mean something. Life is precious.
If you are stuck in a rut and don't know how to get out of it, then seek help. If you have dreams you want to pursue, find the courage to pursue them. Again, failure is not as bad as regret of never having tried.You may not always be able to choose the situations you are put in, but you can always choose how to respond to them. Take control, because it is your life. Life is unexpected.
Be the best you can, let the darkness within be transformed into something positive, a legacy of art, let the light within shine bright and dazzle to make this life worthwhile! Life is exciting.
Thank you for patiently listening to my words. Thank you for appreciating my art. Thank you for understanding what I mean. Thank you for being you. Love you all.
xoxo KK
Location: Tierra de Fuego
maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Tierra%20de%20Fuego/158/11...
For my dad, George, my uncles, and my sister Shari -- a little story:
I'm convinced that my sisters and I come by our love of aviation epi-gentically, having not only our father, an aircraft mechanic and pilot in his younger years, but three paternal uncles as well who flew. Uncle Alex was a Montana barnstormer who taught himself to fly, and who was a reconnaissance pilot during WWII. Uncle Dave lived in a run-down trailer at the end of a runway where he hangered his three vintage aircraft. He was in a constant war with the FAA over his "medical". Uncle Bob took me flying often during my teens. He and my dad once had to make an emergency landing in a cow pasture when a storm blew up fast on a quick hop from Chicago to Milwaukee one summer afternoon.
Determined to fly, Dad went through and passed all his OCS exams while enlisted in the US Navy, but washed-out for an unexpressed astigmatism. He remained livid for decades, and instead used his G.I. Bill money to learn to fly.
When I was four my dad attempted to taxi with me in the Piper Cub, but had to stop because I was terrified and was screaming bloody murder. It took me awhile to learn to love light aviation. ;-)
Our family language was and is still peppered with words and phrases from aviation, but the title of Image 2 is a personal joke between my sister Shari and I from an old Firesign Theatre sketch. She'd call me on the phone and begin with:
(squawk) "White Lighting, White Lightning, this is Ground Beef Control. Do you read me? Over." (squawk) "I read only good books. Over."
So for all of them, my Dad, Shari, Uncles Alex, Dave and Bob -- have a look-see during one of your extra-dimensional layovers. And watch out for low-flyin' crazies! ♡✳ ♡
Other details: maybe later...
Tune: The Roots - Don't Say Nuthin'
Yeah! That all mighty amazing, ill, highly contagious
Kamikaze south splash like it shot from a gauge
Until your body sound clash
Head of the Class, Magna Cum Laude
Beats bring the beast out me, flagrant, foul rowdy
Reed pipe but deed tight, disposition keep on flipping
Keep em playing they position
Keep making the people listen what I spin
Put em out on a limb
Got tears, got blood, got sweat, leaking out of the pen
Y'all fake niggas not setting a trend
We never listen to them
It's like trying to take a piss in the wind
My home team doing visitors in, yo don't test em
They all standing close to the edge, so don't stress em
Now who the type built to last?
It's no question, the Master!
Villain in Black wit no stets in my sound
Hitting you hard from - every direction
Your head and shoulder, area your midsection dawg!
Yeah
Give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Just give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Cut the check
Give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Nigga, give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Yeah Illadelph, home of the original gun clappers
Out on the wrong corner your shit'll get spun backwards
You got the fool wanting the rules, enter at risk
Or your own nana'll keep a gat under the mattress
Shorties running reckless from Philly to Texas
Surprising what niggas willing to do to get a neckless
Some emotions felt better left unexpressed at times
Niggas' crime record longer than a guest list
Yes, I done seen things you wouldn't believe
Seen people reach levels thought they'd never achieve
Silhouettes waiting in the wings ready to D
Thirst decise or need at least a buck to breathe
C'mon! Stick up kids, they be out to tax
Most times they be sticking you without the gats
I'll still be on the grind when it all collapse
And if it's my worst bar then I'm a take it right back nigga
Yeah
Give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Just give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Cut the check
Give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Nigga, give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Yeah, it ain't nothin' like I rush I get, in front of the band
On stage wit the planet in the palm of my hand
When a brother transform, from aynonomous man
To the force, crush whoever might of thought I was playin'
I'ma flame some, sentence the shit, the cold twist to slang
Thicker than big boy baby, mom, sister pain
Beyond measure, relaxed under pressure
You see the master piece, but to me it's unperfected
Give it here Geffen Records, I'm off the handle
Cut the check, and yo it better be as heavy as anvil
Next joint comin', all bets is canceled
Nigga black ink, red was a G financial
We finna have the whole industry at a stand still
See me put the system on lock like can pill
So get wit them endorsements, and call reinforcements
Cause my click come a full sizable portions
Yeah
Give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Just give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Cut the check
Give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Nigga, give it here, and don't say nuthin'
Somehow we always say the least
to those we love the best
And hope our thoughts
are understood.
Although they're unexpressed -
That's why it means
so very much,
when days like this are here
To say how very much
you're loved
each day throughout the year.
Happy Mother's Day
It was the 27th of October, 2006. A young woman by the name of June Moone was invited to a costume party, held by a somewhat close acquaintance of hers, Alan Dell. She stood outside his intimidatingly large residence during a cold, dark night as she awaited a response to her knocks at the door.
June was a very introverted woman; it was abnormal for her to accept an invite to any social gathering. An exception was only made due to unexpressed romantic feelings she had for Alan.
After a minute or two, finally, Alan opened the door. He was clad in a dapper, navy-coloured tuxedo, while a charming grin stretched across his face.
“Oh, hey! Didn’t think you’d make it”
“Hey” June said back, nervously.
She entered the house. Chatter in the room was interrupted by scattered “hello”s, “hi”s, and a singular sarcastic “welcome to Terror Castle”. Each of these expressions of welcoming did nothing beyond amplifying June’s anxiety.
“Oh, June, hi! Where’s your costume?” Asked June’s childhood friend, Robyn Haney, walking toward her in a store-bought spandex outfit with a lantern-esque emblem on the chest.
“This was all I had” June explained, in reference to the casual autumn wear she was sporting.
“Ah, that’s a shame…" she stated before pausing, briefly. "Do you wanna beer?” she asked.
“Um, sure” June stammered in response.
Robyn walked off, and whilst awaiting her beverage, June eyed the crowded room. A large majority of the people in the room were strangers to her. From afar, she saw Alan speaking suggestively to another woman. “I shouldn’t have come here” June thought to herself.
Robyn returned, two bright red cans of beer in her hands. She handed one to June, before they sat beside each other on a nearby sofa.
“So, it’s been a while… What have you been up to?” questioned Robyn.
June took a second to respond due to her insecurities when it came to speaking. “Not much… Just art stuff mostly” she forced herself to say, before opening her beer can and downing a third of the drink, in hopes to ease herself into the conversation. “Oh and I’m thinking about applying for a college” she continued.
“Oh nice! Like an art school, or?”
“Maybe… I’m not sure yet. I’ve been doing art my whole life, so it’d make sense to stick to what I’m good at, but I dunno, I think something new could be fun… I get this sounds crazy, but part of me wants to be an archeologist”
“Oh, wow! You go, girl! And that’s not crazy, I’m sure you can pull it off. You always were the smart one” said Robyn.
“Thanks” June replied, smiling.
Abruptly, another partygoer walked forth, before standing in-place beside the couch. He wore round spectacles, bright blue spandex, and a red fabric cape.
“What are you supposed to be?” He asked, looking at Robyn’s costume.
“Green Lantern” Robyn answered.
“Since when does the Green Lantern wear a skirt?”
“Since when does Superman wear glasses?”
“Touché” he said in a defeated tone, before looking in June’s direction. “I don’t believe we’ve met” he admitted, before extending his arm towards her. “Call me Howie”
“June” she stated, shaking his hand.
“Nice party, huh? I don’t get out much, this is a good change of pace for me” said Howie after releasing June’s hand.
“Uh huh, yeah, uh… Would you two mind if I excused myself for a moment?” June said, practically interrupting herself.
“Oh uh, yeah, alright” said Howie.
June sat her drink beside the sofa before rushing to the nearest washroom. “I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have come here” repeated over and over in her head like a drum. She was mostly fine when talking to Robyn alone, she was familiar with her, they were almost like siblings… It was once Howie arrived that the alcohol wasn’t enough for her. She was never good with strangers.
She opened what she assumed was a washroom door, but behind it was nothing but a vast realm of nothingness. She was confused, afraid. The only visible details in this strange place was translucent emerald smoke in every direction, as well as two glowing eyes staring back at her from a distance. The eyes shined crimson, peering into her soul like two bright blood moons. She turned around in hopes to leave wherever this was… But the door had mysteriously vanished. She was trapped.
~Madam Web
He prayed earnestly!
(Frederick Marsh)
"Elijah was a man just like us. He prayed earnestly . . . " James 5:17
The thing which made Elijah pray as he did, was the man that he was. When our Great High Priest comes with the lighted torch of His grace, and ignites the wood of our being into a holy flame — then the sweet-smelling fragrance of our requests ascend acceptably to God, and bring down the benediction of His love.
The art of prayer, is a sense of desperate need! There must be a sense of need, and an earnest desire to have that need met.
"Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,
Uttered or unexpressed,
The motion of a hidden fire,
That trembles in the breast."
Prayer is a sin-killer. No one can sin and pray; for prayer will either make us cease from sin — or sin will make us cease from prayer.
Prayer is a power-bringer. It is the hand which touches the hem of the garment of Divine grace, and causes the life which is in the Divine One to flow into us.
Prayer is a victory-giver. Bunyan's Christian found that the weapon of "all-prayer" was sufficient to wound and defeat the adversary who would stop him in his progress as a pilgrim.
Prayer is a holiness-promoter. It is like the gentle dew which falls upon the thirsty plants and causes them to be refreshed and to fructify.
Prayer is a dispute-adjuster. Let any two brethren who are at loggerheads get on their knees, and ask the Lord about any disputed matter — and they will find the Lord saying to their troubled spirits, "Peace, be still."
Prayer is an obstacle-remover, as Peter found when an angel came in answer to the prayers of the saints, and delivered him from the prison of Herod's hate.
Prayer is a Christ-revealer, for it clarifies our vision, and enables us to see unseen spiritual realities.
Prayer is the secret of a holy life! We cannot do without prayer. The spiritual life is born in prayer — and it flourishes, and is strong, as it lives in that same atmosphere!
It is not the arithmetic of our prayers — how many they are;
nor the rhetoric of our prayers — how eloquent they are;
nor the geometry of our prayers — how long they are;
nor the music of our prayers — how sweet our voice may be;
nor the logic of our prayers — how proper they may be;
nor the method of our prayers — how orderly they may be;
nor even the theology of our prayers — how good the doctrine may be,
which God cares for. It is only fervency in prayer, which will make a man prevalent with God. Fervent prayer hits the mark, and pierces the walls of Heaven! "The effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much!" James 5:16
I had the honour 2 weeks ago to have Mr Staheli posing for me at my studio, but that week all of a sudden I got tons of work so I didn't have time to finish it.
At last, here it is, a start of a painting practice... so another picture to follow sometime ;) (you wouldnt believe how many unfinished work I have... so many ideas unexpressed... aaaaah :( )
Thank you Skip for being my first male model :)