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The image shows a wooden bench in a park-like setting with banners in the background. The text on the banners is in the Hawaiian language.
The text "KAHUA PANI" on the right banner translates to "sites like the playgrounds, athletic fields, and courts of play".
"Kahua" means foundation, base, or platform in Hawaiian.
The area appears to be a designated spot for games or activities, as indicated by the banners and the setting.
The location is a lush, green outdoor area with a paved path leading to a covered area in the background.
A unique, carved wooden bench is featured prominently in the foreground.
The plaque on the pole reads"
"A family's love is life's greatest Treasure" In Memoriam [unreadable]
We took an all-day photography tour with Oahu Photography Tour. It was a lot of fun. I recommend it highly.
Our second stop was at Waimea Valley Botanical Garden.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waimea_Valley
Waimea Valley is an area of historic cultural significance on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii. The valley, being an important place in Hawaiian religion, includes several historical structures including stone terraces and walls constructed during the time of the Hawaiian monarchy. The nutrient-rich volcanic soil combined with a rainy environment provided the resourceful Hawaiians of the area the opportunity to create one of the most prosperous farming communities in all of Polynesia. The area had complex fish ponds, domesticated animal pens, various large farming beds, and was famous for the cultivation of pink taro root stock, a coveted item to the Ali`i (the Hawaiian elite).[1][2] Much of the garden floor was once cultivated for taro, sweet potato, and bananas, with new crops and orchards introduced by Europeans after their arrival.
Formerly known as the Waimea Valley Audubon Center and the Waimea Arboretum and Botanical Garden, the Waimea Valley is a historical nature park including botanical gardens. It is located at 59-864 Kamehameha Highway, Haleiwa, Oahu, Hawaii and is open daily except for Christmas and New Year's Day; an admission fee is charged.
www.waimeavalley.net/admission
Hawaii 2025
Oahu 2025
Happy Bench Monday, HBM
Apologies in advance to this young lad, but I turned to ChatGPT to explain what's happening here:
TITLE: Urban Wild: The Teenage Courtship Display
NARRATOR: Sir David Attenborough
SETTING: Horse race, Ireland – late afternoon
[EXT. PUBLIC EVENT SPACE – LATE AFTERNOON]
Golden sunlight bathes the racecourse grounds. Throngs of people mill about, enjoying their refreshments, laughing, placing bets on the next race, scheduled within a few minutes. A distant voice on the PA system can be heard, announcing the results of the previous competition…
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Here, in the temperate wilds of rural Ireland, we encounter a remarkable display — a rarely observed ritual that echoes the great mating dances of the animal kingdom.
From behind a row of wheelie bins, a pale, thin teenage male emerges. His movements are stiff, calculated, like a young gazelle on unfamiliar terrain.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Emerging from concealment, Homo adolescentis irlandicus — a pale, slender young male — makes his tentative approach. Clad in a striking cyan shirt and low-hanging trousers that reveal the waistband of his boxer shorts, he is resplendent in the plumage of his kind.
Two similarly aged females stand near the beer tent, scrolling casually on their phones. Their expressions are unreadable.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
His targets: two females of his cohort, radiant in their teenage regalia. Their hair perfectly straightened, their stance poised — passive, but alert.
The boy suddenly stops, takes a deep breath, and raises both arms to flex. His shirt lifts, exposing sweat-darkened underarms. A faint breeze carries the scent.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
And now... the display begins.
The camera zooms in dramatically on the flexed arms and the sweat stains beneath them.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
With a flourish, he reveals his upper limbs — a demonstration of vitality and, perhaps, a mild dehydration. The underarm stains, dark and circular, act as visual and olfactory signals, not unlike the scent glands of a lemur.
The girls glance at each other. One smirks. The other raises an eyebrow. Their response is subtle, but definitive.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Like the inflating throat sac of a tree frog or the puffed chest of a manakin, this is a bold attempt at attraction. But the outcome remains uncertain.
A long pause. The boy lowers his arms. He scratches his head and begins to back away slowly, dignity mostly intact.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
In the endlessly complex dynamics of human courtship, success is elusive. Yet for this young male, the performance itself is a rite of passage — a moment of growth, vulnerability, and, most of all… sweat.
[FADE OUT. MUSIC SWELLS GENTLY.]
TITLE CARD: Urban Wild: The Teenage Courtship Display
PRODUCED BY: BBC Natural World Unit
NARRATED BY: Sir David Attenborough
A short way past the Sego Canyon glyphs, tucked up on a hill, is a small graveyard. Most graves were unmarked or unreadable.
Children of clouds
Remote as Andromeda
We pass, cloud-like
Shadows on eternity
I gaze down the coast
It looking, no doubt, as it did
At the founding of Hadrian's Wall
Infinitesimal change
Witnessed by scrolling heavens
Unreadable overseers of the tread of man,
Sea breaks to foam, clouding
Anemones and sea-fans
Imitating the vapours above
Testimony, in that white stare
Of the unchangeableness of our home
A raindrop splashes my notes
Runs the words together
Reprimanding my musings
A critique that makes me smile
And hearing the laughter of an imminent storm
I run from this seeming reprimand
For momentarily, forgetting about 'Global Warming'
© Mike Laycock (Silversalt)
On the border between Utah and Arizona, in Arizona on the side of the rode 2321 N Main St, Fredonia, AZ 86022, there is the Buckskin Tavern. Parked out in front of the tavern's unreadable sign is a beat up old truck. I thought it made for a cool photo.
you can buy my art at james-sage.pixels.com/
Intimacy is never private when power watches.
By the time a week had passed, whispers moved faster than freight.
Not about the Pale Hour anymore. About Marin. About Tamsin.
On the spans, crews traded glances when Marin walked Tamsin’s line. In the casino, dealers measured her with eyes that had never bothered before. Even in the Old Port, where Ravenwood’s reach was more rumor than rule, the word carried: the Pale Hour stray hadn’t just survived—she’d been claimed.
Some called it weakness. Others called it strategy. No one said it too loud.
Vivienne said nothing at all. She didn’t need to. But the captains noticed. The House always notices when someone who should have been ash instead carries fire.
A courier approached Marin in the lounge, all polished words and feigned curiosity.
“Strange, isn’t it? How quickly some find favor.”
A floor lieutenant asked Tamsin, pointed, if she was “training her stray to run ledgers now.”
Even Omalley sent a message through the Crimson Alcove network to the Guild: If Vivienne hasn’t cut her loose, she must be useful. I’ll keep watching.
Marin felt the eyes on her everywhere. Not blades at her back—worse. Weighing. Judging. Waiting.
One night, as they walked the catwalk above the freight lines, Marin finally said it.
“They think I’m the handle they can use to move you.”
Tamsin didn’t slow. “Let them.”
Marin looked at her, startled. Tamsin’s jaw tightened, eyes forward. “They’re not wrong. You are. To me. You can move me. I would do anything for you. Which makes you dangerous. But it also makes you mine.”
She glanced at Marin then, sharp, fierce. “And if anyone in this city wants to test that, they’ll learn what steel does to knives that strike it.”
For a long moment, only the hum of the rails answered. Then Marin’s hand slipped into hers, not hidden this time. Below them, the city kept watching. Above them, the Ravenwood kept silent. And silence, in that House, was the closest thing to a declaration.
The test came sooner than either expected. In the Old Port, always the Old Port—too far from the Ravenwood floor, too close to the fringe union fuckery that never quite burned out.
They were halfway across a scaffolding when the trap closed. Three men stepped from the cargo stacks—faces Marin half-recognized from the shadows of old strikes, the kind of men who never forgot where the chalk once marked. Not loyalists. Opportunists.
“Well,” one drawled, gaze sliding between them, “if it isn’t Ravenwood’s newest pet. Or is she more than that?”
Tamsin shifted, stormcoat falling open just enough to show the arc cutter at her side. “If you’re looking for a fight, you should’ve brought better company.”
The man smirked. “Not looking for a fight. Just curious. How much of your leash does Ravenwood hold these days? Enough to keep your stray alive?”
Every word was bait. Every move a test. Before Tamsin could answer, Marin stepped forward. Voice steady. “If you’re curious, test me. Not her.”
The silence that followed was sharp as broken glass. Then one lunged.
Tamsin’s cutter was half-drawn, but Marin was already moving—ducking, redirecting, slamming his wrist into the rail with a crack that echoed across the scaffolds. Shock carried her through until he was on his knees, blade skittering away.
The others hesitated. Tamsin’s arc of light made the decision for them. The air stank of ozone, and the challengers scattered into the Old Port.
For a moment only the hum of steel filled the silence. Marin’s chest heaved, her palms stung, but she stayed upright.
Tamsin stared at her, unreadable. Then, slowly, she sheathed the cutter. “You just painted a target on your back.”
Marin met her eyes. “Better mine than yours.”
Something fierce flickered there. Tamsin’s hand came up, gripping Marin’s shoulder, pulling her close until their foreheads touched. Not a kiss. But a vow. “You’re mine,” she growled. “And no one touches what’s mine.”
Above them, freight rolled. Below them, whispers were already starting. The challenge hadn’t weakened them. It had announced them.
Word reached Vivienne before dawn. It always did. Six versions of the same story: Marin, the Pale Hour stray, had stood her ground under Tamsin’s eye and walked away breathing.
By the time they stepped back onto the casino floor that night, the House was already watching. Dealers tracked them with the same attention they gave loaded dice. Captains traded murmurs like wagers.
Vivienne sat in the overlook. She didn’t call them up. She didn’t need to. The casino itself carried her silence down the stairs—the lights humming softer, the air shifting. Even Tamsin felt it.
Only when they passed beneath did Vivienne rise. No speech. No decree. Just a step forward, her crimson coat catching the light. Her eyes found Marin first, then Tamsin. Measured them both. Held them in a stillness that weighed heavier than words.
Then Vivienne inclined her head once. Precise. Controlled. Approval.
The casino breathed again. Music resumed. Dice rattled. The House carried on.
But the message was carved in the marrow of everyone present: Marin was no longer a stray. She was Ravenwood. Not because Tamsin had claimed her. Because Vivienne had.
Later, in the quiet of Tamsin’s quarters, Marin whispered, “She saw us.”
Tamsin’s mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “She always did.”
And in that unspoken permission, their bond became more than personal. It became part of the Ravenwood itself.
Tamsin and Marin will be back later this season with their wedding at Club ARGENT. Watch for it!
Visit Sky Port Bury at maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Kasieopeia/219/128/534
The Ash-Born Part 1: Proof of Use
The Ash-Born Part 2: Proof of Silence
The Ash-Born Part 3: Proof of Measure
The Ash-Born Part 4: Proof of Fire
And I, I naturally fled.
Once more, a dejected pic from yesteryear.
Did a little research on this place: a place prominent in my childhood and adolescent years.
Lund's Tower is a stone-built folly situated to the south-west of the North Yorkshire village of Sutton-in-Craven. It is also known as the Sutton Pinnacle, the Ethel Tower, the Jubilee Tower or, in conjunction with the nearby Wainman's Pinnacle, the pair are referred to as the Salt and Pepper Pots.
Different reasons have been given for why Lund wanted the folly built: local residents refer to it as the Ethel Tower, believing it was constructed either to celebrate the birth of Lund's daughter Ethel – or her 21st birthday; others refer to it as the Jubilee Tower, believing it commemorated the 1887 jubilee of Queen Victoria. It is also known as Sutton Pinnacle.
Crenellated battlements adorn the small tower, which is constructed from squared-dressed stone. It has a plinth and an unreadable plaque. The interior has a stone built spiral staircase of thirty-nine steps. There is also a viewing platform. I highly recommend a visit if you're travelling from Lancashire to Yorkshire, via Colne.
with a cup, a book, and a blanket
I'm reading The Dollmaker. When I was young, I watched the made for TV movie that was based on this book, and it has haunted me ever since, though I never realized the book existed. Then this summer, on the farm my father grew up on, I found the book, covered in dust and falling apart. It had been my grandmother's. I ordered a new copy (the other was really unreadable), and I have been completely taken with the strength that the main character has had in the face of so much adversity. A beautiful, heartbreaking story...such a worthwhile read...
I was egoistic and Googled my own name just to see what was out there in cyberspace. It's interesting what you can find. One of the things I found was that someone had used one of my pictures that was uploaded (by me) a long time (7 years) ago to a site called "Nuages.com", which displays only clouds It was used (with proper identification of owner) to illustrate a poem, in French. Since it's about 45 years since I had my last French lesson, I unfortunately can't understand the poem, but I know that some of my flickr friends can, and if someone could give me a hint what it's about, I would really appreciate it. Here is the poem
LE VENT NOUS EMPORTERA
Dans ma nuit, si brève, hélas
Le vent a rendez-vous avec les feuilles.
Ma nuit si brève est remplie de l'angoisse dévastatrice
Ecoute! Entends-tu le souffle des ténèbres?
De ce bonheur, je me sens étranger.
Au désespoir je suis accoutumée.
Ecoute! Entends-tu le souffle des ténèbres?
Là, dans la nuit, quelque chose se passe
La lune est rouge et angoissée.
Et accrochés à ce toit
Qui risque de s'effondrer à tout moment,
Les nuages, comme une foule de pleureuses,
Attendent l'accouchement de la pluie,
Un instant, et puis rien.
Derrière cette fenêtre,
C'est la nuit qui tremble
Et c'est la terre qui s'arrête de tourner.
Derrière cette fenêtre, un inconnu s'inquiète
pour moi et toi.
Toi, toute verdoyante,
Pose tes mains - ces souvenirs ardents -
Sur mes mains amoureuses
Et confie tes lèvres, repues de la chaleur de la vie,
Aux caresses de mes lèvres amoureuses
Le vent nous emportera!
Le vent nous emportera!
Forough Farrokhzad,
Poème extrait du film Le Vent nous emportera,
d'Abbas Kiarostami
Here is a translation thanks to
*Laurence Garçon* (Please visit her photo stream to see fantastic pictures from Paris)
Thank you Laurance!
THE WIND WILL CARRY US
In my night, so sadly short,
The wind has a date with the leaves.
My night, so short, is filled with destructive anxiety
Listen! Do you hear the breath of blackness?
To this happiness, I feel foreign.
To despair I am accustomed.
Listen! Do you hear the breath of blackness?
There, in the night, something is happening
The moon is red and anxious.
And hung on this roof
Which risks collapsing any time,
Clouds, as a crowd of grumblers,
Wait for the delivery of the rain,
An instant, and then nothing.
Behind this window,
It is the night that trembles
And it is the earth which stops to turn.
Behind this window, the unknown gets worried
for me and you.
You, very green,
Put down your hands - these burning memories-
On my loving hands
And entrust your lips, fed on the warmth of life,
In the caresses of my loving lips
The wind will take us!
The wind will take us!
Technical note; This a picture taken very early with my first digital camera, a Leica (made by Fuji). The resolution was not very good, but it was fun to try something digital.
The original was saved on a Zip 100 disc, which has since deteriorated and is now unreadable. A lesson learned that our digital media will not last as long as my grandparent's b/w photos.
FR : "M" comme "Majesté"
Survol de Paris coordonné de la "Patrouille de France" (appareils "Alpha Jet") et des "Red Arrows" (appareils "BAe Hawk"), pour célébrer la première visite en France du roi britannique Charles III
On a beaucoup de chance que les drapeaux francais et britanniques soient tous les deux tricolores "bleu-blanc-rouge", sinon le mélange des fumigènes aurait été totalement illisible !
Pour une fois qu'on est d'accord avec les Anglais !
Sur les mille dernières années, c'est un événement suffisamment rare pour le signaler...
EN: "M" for "Majesty" (in fact, Metro station!)
Coordinated flight over Paris of the "Patrouille de France" ("Alpha Jet" aircrafts) and the "Red Arrows" ("BAe Hawk" aircrafts), to celebrate the first visit to France of the British King Charles III
We are very lucky that the French and British flags are both tricolors "blue-white-red", otherwise the mixture of smoke would have been totally unreadable!
For once we agree with the English!
Over the last thousand years, it’s an event which is rare enough to point it out...
It's hard not to be distracted by all the graffiti on the walls...
***************************
When we hear the phrase “first impression,” we tend to think of a person. Was the politician I recently voted for as inspiring when I heard his first speech as he was years later? (More so, sadly.) Was the girl that I married as beautiful at 13 as she was years later, in her twenties and thirties? (Yes, and yes.) Did Bob Dylan’s Blowin’ in the Wind send more of a shiver down my spine in 1963 than it did when I heard it drifting from a car radio 45 years later? (No. It stops me dead in my tracks every time I hear it.)
It’s not just people that make first impressions on me. Cities do, too, perhaps because I encountered so many of them while my family moved every year throughout my childhood. Or perhaps it’s because, after seeing so many cities that I thought were different in the United States, I was so completely unprepared for the wild variety of sights and sounds and smells that I encountered as a grown man, when I traveled to Europe and South America, to Africa and Asia and Australia. And even today, there are cities that I’m visiting for the first time, and which continue to take me by surprise.
Athens is one of those cities. I don’t know what I was expecting… Something old, of course, something downright ancient, filled with smashed statues and marble columns like Rome, engraved with unreadable inscriptions in a language I never learned — but probably not as ancient as Cairo. Something hot and noisy and polluted and smelly, perhaps like Calcutta or the slums of Mumbai. Something gridlocked with noisy, honking traffic congestion, perhaps like Moscow.
What I didn’t expect was the wide, nearly-empty highways leading from the airport into the city. I didn’t expect the cleanliness of the tree-lined streets that ran in every direction. I did expect the white-washed buildings and houses that climbed the hills that surround the city — but the local people told me that buildings in Athens were positively gray compared to what I would have seen if I had stayed longer and ventured out to the Greek islands.
I also didn’t expect the graffiti that covered nearly every wall, on every building, up and down every street. They were mostly slogans and phrases in Greek (and therefore completely unintelligible to me), but with occasional crude references in English to IMF bankers, undercover policemen, a politician or two, and the CIA. There were a couple slogans from the Russian revolution of 1917, from the Castro uprising in Cuba, and even from the American revolution (“united we stand, divided we fall.”)
Naturally, I thought all of this had come about in just the past few months, as Greece has wrestled with its overwhelming financial crisis. But I was told by local citizens that much of the graffiti has been around for quite a bit longer than that – just as it has been in cities like New York and London. Some of it was wild and colorful, with cartoon figures and crazy faces … though I don’t think it quite rises to the level of “street art” that one sees in parts of SoHo, Tribeca, and the East Village in New York. What impressed me most about the graffiti in Athens was its vibrant energy; I felt like the artists were ready to punch a hole through the walls with their spray-cans.
These are merely my own first impressions; they won’t be the same as yours. Beyond that, there are a lot of facts, figures, and details if one wants to fully describe a city like Athens. Its recorded history spans some 3,400 years, and it includes the exploits of kings and generals, gods and philosophers, athletes and artists. There are statues and columns and ruins everywhere; and towering above it all is the breath-taking Acropolis. It’s far too rich and complex for me to describe here in any reasonable way; if you want to know more, find some books or scan the excellent Wikipedia summary.
It’s also hard to figure out what one should photograph on a first visit to a city like Athens. It’s impossible not to photograph the Acropolis, especially since it’s lit at night and visible from almost every corner of the city. I was interested in the possibility of photographing the complex in the special light before dawn or after sunset, but it’s closed to visitors except during “civilized” daytime hours. It’s also undergoing extensive renovations and repair, so much of it is covered in scaffolding, derricks, and cranes. In the end, I took a few panorama shots and telephoto shots, and explored the details by visiting the new Acropolis Museum, with the camera turned off.
Aside from that, the photos you’ll see here concentrate on two things: my unexpected “first impression” of the local graffiti, and my favorite of all subjects: people. In a couple cases, the subjects are unmistakably Greek – Greek orthodox priests, for example – and in a couple cases, you might think you were looking at a street scene in São Paulo or Mexico City. But in most of the shots, you’ll see examples of stylish, fashionable, interesting people that don’t look all that much different from the people I’ve photographed in New York, London, Rome, or Paris. Maybe we can attribute that to the homogenization of fashion and style in today’s interconnected global environment. Or maybe we can just chalk it up to the fact that people are, well … interesting … wherever you go.
In any case, enjoy. And if you get to Athens yourself, send me some photos of your own first impressions.
© This photograph is copyrighted. Under no circumstances can it be reproduced, distributed, modified, copied, posted to websites or printed or published in media or other medium or used for commercial or other uses without the prior written consent and permission of the photographer.
As a young boy growing up in the 1940s when things were scarce and rationed, Whitsuntide was the time when a set of new 'best clothes' arrived and I was despatched around the neighbours to show off my suit and receive a good luck penny in my top pocket - then away to Sunday School.
This exceedingly well-worn penny, disappearing into my pocket, is from Victoria's reign when a penny was a 240th part of a pound sterling and is from the 1870s (final figure unreadable).
HMM
Today was our last day of school for a week and a half for vacation. Yay for sleeping in! :D
So, I gave all my gifts today and I felt good, haha. Most of them I could tell liked what I bought them, but the other's were like, unreadable. Well, oh well. OH! And my ex (Or his brother, I don't know which... The cards were lose in the bag they gave me) gave me this really nice necklace thing, BUT! It's like a pocket watch, only on a necklace :D I'm still wearing it. But I feel bad because it's from a store called "Things Remembered", and it's kind of an expensive store because they engrave on silver and sell silver products. =/ But I still love it. It was so thoughtful. And the other one gave me a cute ornament with a girl roundhouse kicking =] Their cards were nice too.
So I guess it was a good day. Not to tough at school... History was good =] Then again, when isn't it? It's like the only class I really love. Seriously, I love that class. I'm doing really well too =]
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Wooh hoo! And then, Christmas! Well, and Hannuka. My Dad's side of the family is Jewish, so we're celebrating it on Christmas because my grandparents weren't able to make it the first day of Hannuka because of all the snow we were getting.
.... Day 25 =] Fun stuff.
The photograph showcases a power plant complex situated in a natural setting, likely near the Frankenbach district of Heilbronn, Germany. The scene is dominated by the industrial structures of the power plant, including tall smokestacks and cooling towers, which release visible plumes of white smoke. A grassy hill occupies the foreground, providing a natural frame for the industrial backdrop. The sky is overcast, contributing to a somewhat muted color palette. The overall impression is one of contrasting elements – the natural landscape juxtaposed with the man-made industrial infrastructure.
Last moment to capture Queen Elizabeth before she set sail to Melbourne.
Circular Quay, Sydney, Australia (Tuesday 22 February 2011)
Quil and Grace<3
Sorry I haven't been around in ages, I've been rather busy, lol.
It's kinda late but I hope everyone had a great christmas/new year.
Here's a little preview of rest in peace part 2;
“Chase.” She spoke softly; I felt a sudden gush of calm as if her tender voice had soothed me. As if by impulse, my head snapped up. Grace was stood in the edge of my door way, her arms were folded in a forlorn fashion, but her expression was warm and echoed concern. Her eyes shifted from my hand to my eyes, she paused for a moment and then sauntered over to sit by me.
She didn’t look at me as she collapsed down beside me. But I couldn’t take my eyes off her, she didn’t look like Grace; her eyes didn’t hold the familiar sheen they usually did and there were large, purple bruises lining her tired eyes. She had never looked like this, not even when she was at Breaking Point.
We didn’t speak to each other; we just sat there for what felt like hours – gazing out of my crooked window and into the raining sunset. Grace was amazing like that, she just knew me, she didn’t have to say anything, yet she gave me the best comfort a person could want, merely by sitting there and aimlessly watching the sunset.
I let my eyes drift over to Grace for a brief moment, she was sat merely inches away from me, so close that I could hear her steady breathing, and I’m sure that if I listened hard enough I’d be able to hear her heartbeat, too. But there was something off about the way she was sitting, with her knees pulled up to her chest, the way her arms were clasped rigidly around them like a lock, keeping the secret inside. She wasn’t okay.
“What are you doing here, Grace?” I had originally intended for the words to come out strong, powerful even; but instead they can out as cracked and as hollow as the speaker.
She let her legs fall out her arms and sprawl out on the floor, with her tired eyes and sullen cheek bones she looked like a ragged doll. Grace turned to face me, her expression unreadable but I could see the pain she’d worked so hard to cover creeping out from behind the mask. Her mask was beginning to splinter and fall to pieces. She opened her cracked lips as if to say something, but no words came out. There was another long silence before she muttered, “I don’t know.”
A single tear drop rolled down her broken mask.
“Grace...” I whispered, reaching a shaking hand to wipe the tear from her face. She shook her head, causing many more tears to trickle down her face. Her head fell into her hands. I bit my lip, as if to stifle a scream. “Grace...what is it?”
She shook her head, but it didn’t leave her hands.
The year in Sicily began with the sounds of the sea crashing waves against the rocky shore, the scent of saltwater carried on the wind, and the distant hum of cicadas beneath the warm Mediterranean sun. For Vincent Vieto, it was a return to his roots, the place of his birth, where he had grown up among the tough streets of Palermo, learning early how to survive the brutal, unforgiving world of the Sicilian Mafia.
But Sicily, despite its beauty, was not a place that felt like home to him anymore. Not now. Not after Berlin. Not after her.
Month 1
Vincent arrived in Palermo after weeks of travel, his body taut with the pressure of what had happened in Berlin. He had returned to Italy on business for his father arranging deals, keeping the family’s operations running smoothly but his mind was never fully in it. Every day, he was haunted by the face of Dorothy Vallens. Her image, her voice, her eyes, Her body, her soft skin haunted his every thought, skin prickles as her touch against his skin feels like yesterday.
He had gone to Berlin under her father’s orders to find her, to bring her back to the family. But instead of duty, something more dangerous had stirred inside him desire. A forbidden, consuming desire for his own Famiglia. And now, despite the distance, despite the miles of sea that separated him from her, Vincent couldn’t shake the pull, the way she had taken root in his heart.
It eat him inside out, his cousin. Dorothy Vallens. She had become more than a name. She was a wound that wouldn’t heal.
Month 3
The Mafia’s presence in Sicily was like a constant hum beneath the surface of daily life business as usual. Deals were made, loyalties tested, and enemies disposed of in swift and efficient ways. Vincent threw himself into his work, like a man trying to drown in the noise of the world around him. He was busy. The clan was busy. But when the sun dipped below the horizon, when he was alone in the quiet of his villa, his thoughts turned to her.
In the quiet moments, he would catch himself looking out over the balcony, staring into the blackness of the Mediterranean night, his thoughts drifting back to Berlin. To Dorothy and her liquid black dress. To the way she had looked at him that night in Die Rote Spinne a gaze full of fire and resistance.
Damn her, he thought. Damn her for making me feel something I shouldn’t.
His fiancée, ....., noticed the change in him. She had been an understanding woman, someone he had known for years, someone he had promised his heart to. But now, when she tried to speak to him, there was a coldness in his eyes. His mind was elsewhere.
They would sit together for dinner, and she would smile, talk about her day, her family, the wedding that was set for next spring. But Vincent could barely focus. His thoughts drifted back to Berlin, back to the moment Dorothy stared at him, her big dolly eyes, dark with something unreadable, but full of promise. He couldn't remove from his head...
His fiancee’s soft voice broke through his thoughts one evening, her tone gentle but filled with concern. "Vincent... you’re not here with me. What’s troubling you?"
He looked at her, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Nothing," he said curtly, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. He wasn’t the man to speak of feelings—especially not to her, not when his heart was torn between family loyalty and a passion he knew he could never forget.
His fiancee lowered her eyes, the hurt clear on her face. She knew something was wrong, but she didn’t press it. She never did. She was patient, a virtue Vincent respected but couldn’t fully return. Not anymore.
Month 6
Six months had passed since he’d returned to Sicily. The Mafia business was running smoother than it had in years, his father proud of his efforts. But Vincent felt like a shadow of the man he once was. He felt restless, torn between two worlds, the world of duty, loyalty, and tradition in Sicily, and the world of temptation, passion, and forbidden love in Berlin.
He had never been one to indulge in weakness. But Dorothy... Dorothy had cracked something inside him. And it wasn’t just her beauty it was the way she challenged him, the way she saw through him, the way she made him question everything he had known.
His fiancée,...., had tried to fix their relationship, but Vincent found himself numb, distant. There were moments when he would hold her, and his mind would drift away again. When he kissed her, it was mechanical something he had to do to keep up appearances, to honor the promises he had made. But Dorothy’s face was always in the back of his mind.
His fiancee felt it. She felt the distance, the coldness, and it hurt her deeply. But she never said it out loud.
"Vincent," she would say sometimes, her voice trembling slightly, "we can get through this. We’ll make it work, just like we always said."
He would look at her, and his heart would twist. He cared for her. But she wasn’t Dorothy.
Month 9
By the ninth month, Vincent’s struggle had reached its peak. He had spent every night wrestling with himself, trying to suppress the feelings that churned inside him. The Mafia business was in full swing drug shipments, illegal arms deals, and the usual backdoor politics but nothing seemed to fill the void inside him.
One night, alone in his villa after another long day of meetings, Vincent stood before the mirror in his study. His hand reached up, lightly tracing the scar on his cheek, the reminder of his strength, his survival. His brow furrowed as he stared at his reflection.
What are you doing, Vincent? he thought. This isn’t you. You’re better than this. You don’t let a woman ruin your life. Not like this.
But then, in his mind’s eye, he saw Dorothy again her dark big dolly eyes, her seductive smile, the softness of her voice when she had whispered his name. And all the promises of duty, of family, of honor they seemed to crumble away, like dust in the wind.
He left his villa that night, walking down the winding Sicilian streets with a purpose. He went to his father’s office, to the quiet, unspoken business of the Mafia. He had made his decision.
Month 12
By the end of the year, Vincent was a man at war with himself. He had done everything expected of him. He had honored his commitments, fought for the family, upheld the Mafia’s legacy. But when the long nights came, when the silence in his villa pressed in on him, all he could think of was Dorothy. Her image had consumed him, mind and body.
His fiancée, had come to him one evening, her face red from crying. "Vincent, you’re not here. You’re not with me. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live in this... limbo."
Her words cut him deeper than any betrayal. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t give her the love she needed. Not when his heart belonged to another woman.
And so, after a year of torturous silence, Vincent made the only choice he could. The night he left Sicily, he stood at the edge of the sea, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.
He was leaving everything behind. His family. His fiancée. His position in the Mafia.
He would return to Berlin. To Dorothy Vallens.
His heart ached with both the fear and the excitement of the unknown. He knew that what he was about to do, would cost him everything. But he also knew that it was, the only thing left that could give him peace.
As the plane soared over the Mediterranean, heading north, Vincent closed his eyes, already imagining her face. He didn’t know what would happen when he found her. But one thing was certain he was done fighting it.
He was going back to Berlin. To her.
And there, in the heart of the storm, Vincent Vieto would finally discover what it meant to love the woman who had stolen his heart and what it cost to be with her.
Photo taken : maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Club%20Road/37/121/32
Kayla muttered, “Guess Arcturians aren’t big on radio small talk.”
Adrienne gave a half-shrug, then froze. “Shhh… did you hear that?” Her hand slid instinctively to her pistol.
To their astonishment, a figure stepped from the tree line—Bext, smiling faintly.
“Grab your gear. Follow me.”
“We just finished speaking with K’hall moments ago!” Adrienne said, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. Kayla, steadier now, fell in behind them as they climbed the embankment toward the open pasture.
There, cloaked in shimmer, stood the orb—its entry ramp the only visible feature. A second ramp lay nearby, where two men and a woman were boarding.
“We have three orbs in position,” Bext explained. “You will come with me to K’hall’s vessel. Our passengers, the crew from Ramva19 have been transferred to Ramva2.”
Once inside, the ramp retracted, and the entrance sealed with a hiss.
K’hall descended from the bridge, his expression unreadable. “Welcome back. Please, sit.”
He studied them quietly for a moment. Both women appeared to have been through a lot. “You are very fortunate,” he said. “Few made it out when Axiom5 was destroyed.”
His gaze lingered on Kayla. “You are not the same as before.”
“Yes and no,” she replied.
Adrienne recounted the chaos aboard Axiom5. Kayla spoke of her visions—how she’d merged with the version of herself that hadn’t survived.
K’hall listened intently. “I understand only fragments of your quantum-fold theory,” he said. “But I suspect the version of you that was manifested from your actions… may never have truly existed.”
Kayla leaned forward. “I know where the reptilian nest is. I’ve seen it.”
K’hall straightened. “The nest is intact?”
“Yes. And it’s massive. The eggs are stirring. The creatures inside are active. They’re close to hatching—hours, maybe less.”
She hesitated. “The explosives I was sent with wouldn’t have been enough. The nest is far larger than projected. And now the reptiles have taken the explosives. I have nothing.”
K’hall’s voice dropped. “You are certain they reproduce only once? Then the current generation dies off?”
“Absolutely certain. The newborns inherit full ancestral memory encoded in their DNA. They directly replace the existing population within fifteen days.”
K’hall’s eyes narrowed. “How deep is the nest? Do you have coordinates?”
“Approximately four miles below the surface.” She tapped her VDD and read off the coordinates she recorded.
“Bext,” K’hall said, “plot those coordinates.”
“Four miles is too deep to scan and our weapons would be ineffective. We would need to get inside.”
Moments later, Bext returned, her voice grim. “Commander… those match the X-Y coordinates of our primary strike zone. We obliterated everything on the surface—mound, entrance, everything. Whatever lies beneath… it is sealed off.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You can view Quantum Fold episodes in order from the beginning in her album titled, Quantum Fold:
www.flickr.com/photos/199076397@N02/albums/72177720326169...
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...are just, inseparable...it is "Maximiliana" and me.
Just wanted you, folks, to make sure I had really been to Thailand...hahaha !!! Hey, you just can´t imagine how much I hate these PS pseudo camera things (PS for "Point and Shoot", nothing else, of course), but, you see, no choice here...had to document the moment...hahaha... oh, well !!!
At the magnificent "Grand Palace", right in the heart of fascinating and thrilling Bangkok, Thailand. Canon Power Shot SX130 IS ( sorry, exposure values are unreadable in this darn thing ) JPEG
He barked in her face, trying to break her. 😤
Raisa stood still—unbothered, unreadable—like the quiet before a massacre.
The "FIRST STOP WEST NORWOOD" white bar does not read at all in the dark, even physically.
London Central MHV72 (BV66 VGF) on Route X68, West Croydon Bus Station
This Piping Plover was born in eastern Canada –banded as a chick in July 2017 at Malbay South, New Brunswick. Originally he was black flag AP, but when the code on the black flag became unreadable, it was replaced it with white flag K2 in 2021. This individual winters in Cuba at Cayo Coco. In the nonbreeding season he has also been seen in spring 2018 in North Carolina; and in fall of 2018 in Virginia and North Carolina, and 2019 North Carolina."
Personal communication.
Tania Piñeiro Cordero - Especialista en GIS, Bird Guide.
DFP was a minor French car brand, which was active between 1906 to 1926. DFP stands for the three founders Doriot, Flandrin and Parant. Their factory was based in Courbevoie, near Paris.
The 2-litre engine was developed by DFP. It was even used by Bentley.
I have to admit I had never heard of the brandname DFP.
The body of this DFP was designed and manufactured by Taurinya. Ghislain Mahy bought this rare car in the South of France.
1996 cc L4 petrol engine.
Performance: 12-15 bhp.
Production DFP 12/15 series: 1912-1924.
Original first reg. number: 1913.
With old French painted reg. plate (unreadable).
This temporary exhibition was set up to honour the old Ghislain Mahy, by bringing back some iconic items from his collection to the place where it all began: the Ghent Wintercircus.
Unfortunately there were only 10 vehicles on display.
Ghislain Mahy (1907-1999) was a Fiat car dealer and classic car enthusiast who rented this old Wintercircus building for over forty years. Starting in the early 1950s he built up a collection of old and classical cars from more than 950 items. He bought them mainly in France. And many of them were just saved from the hands of car scrapers.
In 1995 Mahy had to leave this special place. His collection was partly sold, the rest was divided over two museums. Restored top cars went to classic car museum Autoworld, Brussels (about 230 items). But the majority, most unrestored cars, found a new home in a new founded car museum in the south of Belgium called Mahymobiles, Leuze-en-Hainaut.
More photos will follow...
More info about Wintercircus: nl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wintercircus_(Gent), second option!
For Autoworld see: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Autoworld_(museum)
For Mahymobiles see: nl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahymobiles
Number seen: 1.
Gent (B), Lammerstraat, Sept. 5, 2025.
© 2025 Sander Toonen Halfweg | All Rights Reserved.
A shot of two halves - with a decently sharp Electric Unit No.4700 departing - with a really mucky (number unreadable) BR Standard 4mt tank on ecs ex Waterloo. The steam loco has - most unfortunately gone out of focus which should not have been a problem despite the low winter light .
26th.October 1966.
My camera fault was fixed eventually - in Apr'67.
"It was at present a place perfectly accordant with man's nature" - Thomas Hardy
.
"The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he's in prison."
~ Fyodor Dostoevsky
“People are strange: they are constantly angered by trivial things, but on a major matter like totally wasting their lives, they hardly seem to notice.”
~ Charles Bukowski
Three times my life has opened
Three times my life has opened.
Once, into darkness and rain.
Once, into what the body carries at all times within it and starts
to remember each time it enters into the act of love.
Once, to the fire that holds all.
These three were not different.
You will recognize what I am saying or you will not.
But outside my window all day a maple has stepped from her
leaves like a woman in love with winter, dropping the
colored silks.
Neither are we different in what we know.
There is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip of light stays,
like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor, or the one
red leaf the snow releases in March.
– Jane Hirshfield, from The Lives of the Heart: Poems
Honor the essential distractions
that make you whole.
– Alfred K Lamotte
Who can say what the world is?
The world is in flux
That's why unreadable,
The winds shifting.
¿Quién puede decir cómo es el mundo?
El mundo está fluyendo,
es por eso ilegible,
mudan los vientos.
Louise Glück
Bacardi Promotional Camera
24 exposures
Something unreadable is embossed around the lens.
No film expiration date shown.
But text in the web browser app is unreadable, it's so small. Now it could be that there's a way to change the text size, but if there is, it's hard to find. And the out-of-box setting for font size makes all the websites I've tried, even those that don't specify a font or size, unreadable. Did they even try reading any sites with the browser? Hard to imagine they did.
I assume this advert was on a former corner shop for the local community, where now is a halal take-away & before that The Park Lane Tandoori.
Sunlight
Soap
Largest Sale In The World.
.....and another unreadable line below that.
Ol' McClain's truck stop hasn't been for many years. The signs now are almost totally unreadable.
That is an arrow sign on top, but somehow, the top of it is mashed down.
The title? Look in the bottom left.
A family is on the move from a back-to-back house in Birmingham, unlike our present day, more circumspect, approach to other peoples business, here, this is an event and all the neighbours have turned out to watch.
Furniture is being loaded into a van being watched over by a tall man in glasses. The man actually doing the loading has a cigarette on the go. Father of the family is in the van, making sure their goods are being stowed safely.
Between the onlookers we see an old style wooden roller mangle, it has a large handle on the top to adjust the pressure of the rollers. Heading for the van is a Victorian leather sofa, a tin trunk and a shoe rack. Two rolls of linoleum are waiting, one by the van and one by the ladder. The one by the ladder had probably been brought down that ladder, as these cramped houses had narrow and often winding staircases. It was much easier to drop things down from a sash window rather than struggle down the stairs.
Across the cobbled street is a another van, the trailer would have been towed here and has a 20mph speed limit disc, perhaps it was for the house move if it was needed?
Unfortunately we do not know where this street was, I had hoped to decipher a name from the Saw Mills sign but the angle renders it unreadable.
Photographer Miss P.A. Nicklin.
Collection Geoff Dowling ARPS
SP SD45R in "Kodachrome" paint leads an eastbound at Shed 10, CA on Donner Pass on March 10, 1988. One of the problems with the Kodachrome paint scheme was that the original numberboards with red backgrounds were almost unreadable.
This is one of my favorite subjects, and I have photographed it many times, but never before with this much snow. The rough pile of foreground snow was thrown there by a snow plow. The old ranch is showing its age, and I'm sorry to see that the sign on top of the gate has deteriorated badly. It will be unreadable soon, and the sagging roof won't survive many more winters.
BN C424 4244 leads 3 WP GE's at Oroville CA in spring 1971. I got this slide quite a few years ago either through trade or purchase. There is very limited information on it. The photographers first name appears to be Tom the last name has faded to the point it's unreadable. If anyone recognizes it or somones work let me know so we can give proper credit to them for a fine BN shot.