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crumpled sheets, unmade bed, dust bunnies, dead plant and earbuds. yup, a university student lives here.
the complete bookends set.
Billiken made a lot of nice vinyl model kits. Here's an unmade Colossal Beast based on the 1958 film.
The tree is here, still, in pure stone,
in deep evidence, in solid beauty,
layered, through a hundred million years.
Agate, cornelian, gemstone
transmuted the timber and sap
until damp corruptions
fissured the giant's trunk
fusing a parallel being:
the living leaves
unmade themselves
and when the pillar was overthrown
fire in the forest, blaze of the dust-cloud,
celestial ashes mantled it round,
until time, and the lava, created
this gift, of translucent stone.
Neruda
,,, awarded .. www.flickr.com/groups/la_vida_es_un_viaje/discuss/7215765...
Coordinates: 31°12'15"N 78°4'24"E - Dodra (9200 feet) and Kwar (8000 feet) Villages, near the Indian/Tibetan border - unconnected by road, and cut off for seven months of the year due to heavy snows (map) - (full photo set)
I've just been stalked by a tiger at 10,000 feet, coming over a snowbound mountain pass from the remote village of Genwali with Vinay and Sumit a couple of brave city kids I've brought along from New Delhi as translators. They have never climbed a mountain before, never even encountered snow. [Full Genwali trek photolog here]
In Gutu, at the trailhead of the infamous Kedarnath trek I encounter Jim, a genuine wild mountain man. For the last 23 winters this superhuman garbage man from Lake Louise has traversed the remotest Himalayas by snowshoe and back-country ski, conducting remarkable field research as an amateur ethno-ecologist. He is so impressed with the difficult route we’ve just taken that he invites me to hang with him at his headquarters at the once-glorious Prince Hotel in Mussoorie.
Jim shows me his precious khukri dagger. "It was a gift from an old Ghurka veteran I lived with. In the Pacific, he assassinated Japanese officers with this knife", he says proudly. "I would never go into the mountains without it. Back in '86, I woke up in my sleeping bag to a hyena drooling on my face. My khukri split its skull clean through."
Jim and I hike up the ridge to play Frisbee in a field next to some ruins. He throws a curving backhand and launches into one of his brilliant lectures. “See those little huts next to the main building? Geodesist Sir George Everest, Surveyor General of India, stowed his Nepali concubines there from 1818 until 1843 while he was laboring to establish the height of the world's most famous mountain (named in his honor in 1865) and the larger trigonometric survey of India, on which depended the accurate mapping of the subcontinent.” Jim can talk like this for days without tiring, and I soak it up.
"Draw me a map to the most beautiful place you've ever been in the Himalayas", I ask Jim. He is only too happy to share.
"There is a village named Kwar just 45km from the Tibetan border", he says, "where the people are friendlier, the architecture better, and the religion stranger than anywhere I've been up in these mountains. . . Say, if you're going to go, would you mind delivering some photographs I took 16 years ago of those villagers?"
--
Days later, I am a little lost on a mule trail somewhere near the fork of the Rupin river, 15 km short of my destination. I sit down to try to make sense of the hand-drawn map. Perhaps declining to hire one of those crooked guides from Naitwar (the village at the end of the road) wasn't such a hot idea after all.
Hill people stride cheerfully past with improbable loads roped to their backs. Men haul stone slate shingles up the mountain, one heavy shingle at a time. A handsome man in a suit jacket walks by carrying a baby calf in his arms.
A schoolboy with a shy smile and a stubborn sheep stops to let the animal graze on flowers from low-hanging tree branches. Thirty seconds of sign language and emergency Hindi is all it takes to establish everything I will ever know about him. He is Krishana, his sheep is Gablu, and we are going to Kewar together.
--
Kewar turns out to be a magnificent village an hour’s hard climb straight up from the river. Homes with gracefully carved pagoda roofs line the steep ridge and offer their residents sweeping panoramic views of snow-capped mountains from sumptuous wrap-around balconies. The slopes of the rocky hills are softened by orchards full of fresh fruit.
Kewar is also very remote - as I enter the village I stand aside for a parade of grim-faced men. They are carrying a violently ill woman down the mountain. It will take them two days just to reach the nearest road, and the nearest hospital is a day's drive from there.
Harpal, a university student studying English in the provincial capital of Shimla, is beside himself with joy to lodge me in his family's gorgeous 4-story wood and stone home. I am surprised to find a satellite dish on it. Lying asleep in the sun in front of the home is a pony-sized mountain dog. Harpal assures me that the iron collar around their throats protect the village dogs during routine confrontations with tigers and bears.
That night, Harpal's demure sisters serve dahl and rice. They say nothing, responding to none of my questions, and emphatically refuse to eat with us. They won't even meet my gaze - to do so would rupture the cultural dam that insulates the world of women from the world of men.
Harpal proudly turns the television on so we can enjoy our dinner in the conversational company of CNN. I ask him if he watches much television. "Not much", he says, "but my sisters watch 3-4 hours most days." I shake my head. There are only 4 hours of electricity rationed out each day. These young women carry heavy pails of water up steep hills and work in the fields with the most basic tools, yet they follow Bombay's soap operas with religious devotion. I am secretly delighted when the electricity dies and we are left in silence to finish our meal.
I tell my new friends that I wish to repay them for their kindess. I have run out of the popular little LED flashlights that I usually give away to my hosts. But I've been in India for long enough now to know that I a little cultural exchange will be just as treasured. I offer to sing an exotic Western pop song.
Harpal and his sisters listen with angelic concentration in the lamp-light as I earnestly serenade them with The Chelsea Hotel, Leonard Cohen's ironic tribute to the queen of drugs and rock and roll. When it comes to the bit where Janis Joplin is "giving me head on the unmade bed while the limousines wait in the street", I smile sweetly and mumble incomprehensibly.
The next morning, Harpals' sisters speak excellent English to me.
--
I am introduced to the village goldsmith, who hand-crafts the fantastic gold jewelry that the older women wear. His is a dying trade. Harpal's sisters and the other young women in the village scorn these traditional tribal ornaments. None of the actresses on Bollywood TV wear them.
Television is teaching these once-proud people to think of themselves as unfashionable and poor. Wherever I go, the few people who speak English apologize to me for the "poor facilities" and the state of their "backward villages". The young men yearn to move to the big cities like New Delhi. People smile politely when I try to point out that here they are surrounded by beautiful mountains, bountiful orchards, and enviable homes, whereas the rural people I’ve met in the big cities live in squalid ghettos without a stitch of dignity.
--
Apparently, it is a great honor to meet the creepy village shaman, an oracle whose epileptic fits at religious festivities yield prophesies that are gospel to everyone in a hundred-kilometer radius.
Jim's photographs are received with similar reverence. I am given a royal welcome, invited ceremoniously into homes to distribute 4x6 photos from 1989 to villagers who have never seen so much as a Polaroid of themselves before. And they love it.
So this must be what it feels like, I think to myself, to descend in the night in a flaming spaceship and casually dispense crop circles. I start to look at the shaman in a whole new light.
My spiritual self-satisfaction doesn't last long. The nearby village of Jhakha has burned to the ground, and the photographs I give away there are bittersweet, showing homes that no longer stand.
Back in Kewar, I learn too late that some of the people in the remaining photographs have died tragically. The photo of a man who just 3 months earlier went out hunting and fell from a cliff goes to his speechless 16-year old son. The photo of the little 2-year-old girl that Jim cherished most goes to her elderly parents. They struggle to keep from sobbing in front of the foreigner. It is no comfort to me that I am as unprepared for this than they are. They clutch at the only photograph they will ever have of their only daughter, dead now for two years.
Later I return to find them a little less distraught, and they quietly ask me to take their photo.
Their neighbor the goldsmith takes me to his home. I photograph his mother, resplendent in her heavy gold earrings.
I am about to leave when the goldsmith's daughter crawls up to the door of his wooden home and skewers me with her eyes. We stare at each other for a small eternity. I snap her photograph as an afterthough, and a chill runs up my spine.
Her photo will find its way back to Kewar, I promise myself. The circle is begun again.
Dinorwic Slate Quarry, Llanberis, Snowdonia
Dinorwic Quarry employed over 3000 men at its peak and many of these workers lived locally or caught the quarry train to work each day. However men from Anglesey, in particular, required to lodge or barrack at the quarry each week. They left home early on a Monday morning and returned on Saturday afternoon. Provisions for the week were carried on their journey. One of their homes for the week was the Anglesey Barracks high up in the quarry. Anglesey Barracks consists of two identical blocks of 11 units facing each other across an unmade street. Each unit has a living room with a fireplace and a bedroom with space for four men. Amenities were few - no electricity, soft mattresses, toilets or running water, just basic furniture and little else. This way of life survived until 1948 when an unannounced visit by the local Public Health Inspector saw the barracks condemned as unfit for human habitation. After that the quarrymen from Anglesey travelled daily by bus.
I used the high ISO as it was a 3 1stop bracketed hand heldshot and I wanted to be certain of getting it sharp. Not carrying a hefty tripod and set of GradNDs etc certainly helps the back on these longer excursions.
Processed with CameraBag 2
Currently my oldest unmade Airfix kit
For Macro Mondays theme - Oldest Object You Can Find
Walthamstow, East London, UK
Moor Hill, East Norton, Leicestershire
The road leads off into the distance going nowhere, covered in holes filled with water, a bleak journey lies ahead.
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding....
The Highwayman: Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
Dawson’s Heights in Dulwich is like a medieval castle dominating the surrounding area. Built in the 1960’s it was designed by Kate Macintosh for Southwark Borough. It is quite a spectacle, with a sense of mass like a ziggurat, but all these flying balconies and steps, like an unmade Rubik’s cube. According to Wikipedia “the purpose of this design was to ensure that two thirds of the flats had views in both directions, including towards central London”. Which suggests the quality of life of residents was made central and at the same time the building is hugely interesting to look at - it can be done.
More about Kate Macintosh here: www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2015/jun/21/kate-macinto.... “I am old enough to remember the postwar Labour government,” she says, “which at a time when the national debt was 245% of GDP rebuilt the country, doubled living standards and established the welfare state and the NHS… If we could do so much in 1945, when the country was technically bankrupt – what might we now achieve with the political will, in building a more just society?”
There's also a dawn of the dance game where you choose either Cleo, Clawdeen or Frankie and create a 'dance' to the monster high fright song. It's nothing I haven't seen done better on postopia TBQH, but the saving grace of it is that we FINALLY see shoes & full outfits for the remaining, unmade of the core 7!
My favorite shoes are Ula's while least favorite, at the moment, falls to Lagoona.but I LOVE everyone's outfits! I hope the other 4 get made into dolls!
Breaking out of the comfort zone and going mirrorless for a change. Detail and BTS on IG: www.instagram.com/p/DKP3KIRy4zk/?img_index=1
Had this idea piece my head for roughly two years and it’s about 80% what I envisioned. Passion for art reawakened with the “Death” piece; this one rekindled it.
Been loving the look of laser and projector photography. Original idea was to have two walls of windows and a dead guy’s hand sticking out of an unmade bed. But dead guys aren’t great about answering casting calls. Taller subject would have been preferable— more intimidating. But sometimes the short ones are a compressed menace.
Strobist info: one small flash with blue gel on the floor aimed at the ceiling with the baffle diffuser for an Apollo Orb wadded on top to soften the light. Radio trigger. Key light didn’t fire which is the easiest way to get a one-light shot. In an alternate universe this would be a 3-4 light setup: two on the windowsills to make an outlining glow and giving the figure in the shadows soft rim lighting and a light from below, because of course light from below, key to have the raw file moderately exposed to the right to preserve detail when selectively vignetting in post. Next time.
Today was messy, filled with unmade everything. Brigitte, my doggie ate a macadamia nut yesterday morning and we learned that macadamia nuts are toxic to dogs via an emergency vet visit. The Vet told us to sit tight and see how she would feel in the morning. Alas my mom and I drove around with Brigitte in tow until she got motion sickness and got rid of the stupid macadamia nuts. Today she is just peachy thank goodness.
Womb of the Arctic
In the womb of the Arctic, the Thule breathes beneath my ribs, a pale pulse beneath endless ice. Snow becomes ash, ash becomes light. I am unmade and remade by wind that remembers older names than mine. When flesh trembles, it learns to listen; when breath thins, it finds hidden fire. Here, bone speaks, blood answers, and thought bends into instinct. Reality loosens, magic tightens its grip. The land opens like a quiet mother, cold and absolute, calling me home with a voice made of silence. I step inside it... and it takes me as its daughter.
Photography and file processing; __luca__ nevermind(Luis Campillo)
Artistic direction, MUAH, props, caption and model; Lis Xia
Gear; Nikon D700 & Nikkor 50mm 1.8G Special Edition, 3200 ISO
PTSC Trinidad operated many Leyland buses in the heyday of the British manufacturer. A large batch of Leyland national 2s followed some mk1s and many were still operating until recent times. During the later years some received DAF engines extending their lives on the Island. This photograph is taken in Port of Spain the capital, of No 1168 operating a service out to Carenage. Once out of the main city area the roads deteriorated often into unmade tracks on some routes resulting in these vehicles having difficult hard torturous lives. The nearside wiper was considered an unnecessary luxury, as indeed were windows but this one did retain most. "Thomas" buses with cummins engines were popular after the leylands although I believe the company are now onto the Yutong craze.
You can license this image HERE.
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Castel Pietra - Gavorrano, Grosseto
Già nel 1067 del castello detto Castel Pietra se ne parlava quando venne coinvolto nel patto tra Siena e la famiglia Aldobrandeschi riguardo il commercio del sale. Il castello passò sotto la famiglia Pannocchieschi vassalli degli Aldobrandeschi attorno al XIII secolo, quindi molti comuni della Toscana meridionale, come Massa Marittima e Siena tentarono di includerlo tra i propri beni. Il castello cadde in rovina nella prima metà del 1400.
Oggi la struttura è completamente diroccata nonostante siano stati eseguiti restauri conservativi e scavi archeologici.
Nello d'Inghiramo dei Pannocchieschi, politico di rilievo e podestà di Volterra nel 1277 e di Lucca nel 1313 ne fece la propria dimora.
Uomo dotato di temperamento violento, nel 1300, invaghitosi di Margherita Aldobrandeschi che intendeva sposare, fece assassinare la propria moglie Pia de'Tolomei.
Dante Alighieri, nella sua Divina Commedia, descrive al Canto V del Purgatorio l'incontro con questa sventurata donna con i celebri versi: "ricordati di me che son la Pia: Siena mi fè; disfecemi Maremma".
Already in 1067 was spoken about the castle called "Castel Pietra" when it became involved in the pact between Siena and the Aldobrandeschi family about the salt trade.
The castle passed under the family Pannocchieschi, vassals of the Aldobrandeschi around the thirteenth century, then many municipalities of Southern Tuscany as Massa Marittima and Siena tried to include it among their possessions. The castle fell into ruins in the first half of 1400s. Today the building is completely demolished despite being performed conservative restorations and archeological excavations.
Nello d'Inghiramo Pannocchieschi, significant political and mayor in 1277 of the towns of Volterra and Lucca in 1313 made of it his home.
Man of violent temper, in 1300s, fallen in love with Margherita Aldobrandeschi who he intended to marry, murdered his wife Pia de'Tolomei.
Dante Alighieri in his Divine Comedy, in Purgatory Canto V describes the meeting with this unfortunate woman with the famous verses: "remember me who am the Pia: Siena made me, Maremma unmade".
© Riccardo Senis, All Rights Reserved
This image may not be copied, reproduced, republished, edited, downloaded, displayed, modified, transmitted, licensed, transferred, sold, distributed or uploaded in any way without my prior written permission.
This image in Explore July 27, 2012 #489
Dinorwic Quarry employed over 3000 men at its peak and many of these workers lived locally or caught the quarry train on the Padarn Railway to work each day. However men from Anglesey, in particular, required to lodge or barrack at the quarry each week. They left home early on a monday morning and returned on saturday afternoon. Provisions for the week were carried on their journey. One of their homes for the week was the Anglesey Barracks high up in the quarry. Anglesey Barracks consists of two identical blocks of 11 units facing each other across an unmade street. Each unit has a living room with a fireplace and a bedroom with space for four men. Amenities were few - no electricity, soft mattresses, toilets or running water, just basic furniture and little else. Windows were provided only onto the street. This way of life survived until 1948 when an unannounced visit by the local Public Health Inspector saw the barracks condemned as unfit for human habitation. After that the quarrymen from Anglesey travelled daily by bus. The, now derelict and ruined, barracks may still be viewed today by following the marked paths in the Padarn Country Park at Llanberis.
"I love unmade beds. I love when people are drunk and crying and cannot be anything but honest in that moment. I love the look in people’s eyes when they realize they’re in love. I love the way people look when they first wake up and they’ve forgotten their surroundings. I love the gasp people take when their favorite character dies. I love when people close their eyes and drift to somewhere in the clouds. I fall in love with people and their honest moments all the time. I fall in love with their breakdowns and their smeared makeup and their daydreams. Honesty is just too beautiful to ever put into words." ~anonymous
yes.
Fall storms make strange unmade-bed fellows.
(Theme for Happy Caturday 9/28/2019: "Weather" (this time of year — this was 6 years ago tomorow.). Yes, a fall storm will actually get my cats willing to catch some Zs within arms length of each other!).
25172 approaches St Budeaux Ferry Road station on 16-11-74.
The working is the 3B10 10.50 Plymouth -Penzance Parcels.
In the late 1970's this working could still produce a class25.
Notice also the road traffic in the background.
In the background can be seen the track for the branch to Gunnislake which has it's own single platform station named St Budeaux Victoria Road. It was of course once double track with SR trains running to Exeter over the moors.
When adding photos to the collection it is usual for me to know the precise location, though occasionally I am tempted by a beautiful photo or one of historical significance. I have recently stopped adding pictures as I have a large collection and am now able to scan the originals having replaced my faulty scanner.
Part of the Tom Derrington Collection with the photographer identified as Rob Barnes. I imagine a local photographer but would welcome any details known.
This was taken down an unmade road from memory though I could be wrong. It was close to the submarine pens at Keyham and on one occasion I was waylaid by Royal Navy Police who took exception to me having one foot over the wrong side of the fence. Thankfully I was just asked to leave the area.
Ref: img20241215_18571485 SD
My Great, great, great grandparents were married here in this beautiful red stone church in the winter of 1810, over 200 years ago, in the reign of King George III.
He was a 'Lancashire Lad' and she was a 'Staffordshire Lass'! I often wonder if it was a snowy December day, it would have looked magnificent with blue skies. But the journey to the church would have been a difficult one through the snow on an unmade road/track.
Information by Neville Malkin.
The red stone Parish Church of Wolstanton, dedicated to St. Margaret, stands in an elevated position in a churchyard of about two acres. Its lofty steeple, a landmark for miles, stands unusually, on the north side of the church and consists of a tower some 78ft. high, surmounted by a spire that rises a further 65ft. A set of six bells, cast in 1714 and installed during the early 18th century, are said to have been removed from the church at Trentham. The west front is particularly ornate and asymmetrical.
The large chancel contains many interesting features, and several of the monuments are in memory of the Sneyd family. The most significant is an alabaster altar tomb erected in memory of Sir William Sneyd and his wife, whose recumbent effigies lie on the slab of the tomb. The knight is clad in armour with his plumed helmet serving as a pillow, and his lady is dressed in a costume of the Elizabethan period; their 15 children are represented in panels on the front and at the foot.
The origins of this church are probably Saxon, but most of the main plan and building now visible was erected in 1623 and trimmed with a profusion of battlements. It appears that further major alterations by Ward and Sons took place in 1859-60 when the whole of the roof was reconstructed and covered with interesting tile work.
The registers of Wolstanton commence in 1628, when marriages were conducted before a magistrate according to an Act of Cromwell's Parliament. The banns were then published on three successive market-days at Newcastle, or on three successive Sundays in the church.
#10.Religious Symbol. 115 pictures in 2015
A dark, atmospheric thriller, but it never got made. It's so hard to get financing for a quality film these days.
"Carbon made
Found her at the
End of a chain
Time to race she said
Race the downhill
Behind crystaline irises
Loons can dive
Where the world bleeds white
Just keep your eyes on her
Keep dont look away
Keep your eyes on her horizon
Bear claw
Free fall
A gunners view
Black and blue
Shred in ribbons
Of lithium
Blow by blow
Her mind cut
In sheets
Layers deep
Now unravelling
Just keep your eyes on her
Keep dont look away
Keep your eyes on her horizon
Get me neil on the line
No I cant hold
Have him read
Snow glass apples
Where nothing is what it seems
Little sis you must crack this
He says to me
You must go in again
Carbon made
Only wants to be unmade
Blade to ice
Its double diamond time
And keep your eyes on her...
On her eyes
On her horizon"
Tori Amos
All life is but the climbing of a hill / To seek the sun that ranges far beyond / Cofused with stars & lesser lights anon / And planets where the darkness reigneth still / All life is but the seeking for that sun / That never lets one living atom die / The flames beyond the circles of the eye / Where never and forever are as one / And seeking always through this human span / That spread it's drift of years beneath the sky / Confused with living, goeth simple man / Unknowing and unknown into the Why / The Why that flings itself beyond the sun / And back in space to where / Time was begun (Langston Hughes as sung by Leyla McCalla)
© Bamberger Str., Berlin, 2021, Florian Fritsch