Gushing water at a mountain ridge from Coban Pelangi waterfall at the foot of Mount Semeru.

Picture taken from Coban Pelangi waterfall, Tengger Semeru National Park, Malang, East Java, Indonesia.

Curiously, David doesn’t answer his question with an answer. He answers it with a declaration. “The Lord is in his holy temple; the Lord is on his throne in heaven” (vs. 4).

His point is unmistakable: When everything shakes, God remains unshaken. He is in his holy temple. His plan will not be derailed. God is unaffected by our storms. He is undeterred by our problems.

God has made a business out of turning tragedy into triumph. He did with Joseph, with Moses, with Daniel, and, most of all, he did with Jesus on the cross. The innocent one was slaughtered. Heaven’s gift was murdered. Mothers wept, evil danced and the apostles had to wonder, “When all that is good falls apart, what do good people do?”

God answered their question with a declaration, with the rumble of the earth and the rolling of the rock. He reminded them, “The Lord is in his holy temple; the Lord is on his throne in heaven.”

Max Lucado

Our first trip to Oregon. We logged nearly 600 rental car miles in 72 hours trying to see beauty the state of Oregon has to offer and barely scratched the surface. But the first must see of the trip was Multnomah Falls.

Multnomah Falls is the second-tallest year-round waterfall in the nation. (Yosemite Falls is the tallest.) The water of the falls drops 620 feet from its origin on Larch Mountain.

There is a Native American legend that explains the origins of the falls. In this legend, a tribe was infected with a deadly disease and was in danger of dying.

The daughter of the chief went to the top of a cliff and prayed to the Great Spirit to find how she could stop the epidemic.

She was told that to stop the epidemic, she would have to throw herself off the cliff and sacrifice herself. She did this and died. The next day, the chief found his daughter's body at the bottom of the cliff. He wept bitterly and cried out to the Great Spirit to give him a sign if this sacrifice was not in vain. At that moment, water began to fall from the top of the cliff, forming Multnomah Falls. The legend also says that under the right conditions, you can see the daughter's face in the waterfall.

I think one could make a case for seeing a profile in the upper falls about halfway down. It looks to me as if she's standing with her arms folded to her chest.

Reached #260 on Explore Monday, November 5, 2007. Thank you all!

Golden as the light which filtered through autumn leaves, her wounds wept for the pain callously dealt. And you add insult to injury.

Kelsie is a beautifully talented Illustration artist. Her drawings are full of quiet, delicate vulnerability. Some of her most poignant drawings involve a fox or a fawn struck with an arrow. Be a doll and meander on over to her instagram: instagram.com/__seasonpoem/

Thank you for being the ghost dearest Ashlynn Jameson!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

`I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.'

`Long Past?' inquired miss Scrooge: observant of its dwarfish stature.

`No. Your past.'

Miss Scrooge inquired what business brought the spirit to her.

`Your welfare.' said the Ghost.

Miss Scrooge expressed herself much obliged, but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. The Spirit must have heard her thinking, for it said immediately:

`Your reclamation, then. Take heed.'

It put out its hand as it spoke, and clasped her gently by the arm.

`Rise. and walk with me.'

It would have been in vain for miss Scrooge to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that she was clad but lightly in her slippers, dressing-gown, and nightcap; and that she had a cold upon her at that time. The grasp, though gentle, was not to be resisted. She rose: but finding that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped her robe in supplication.

`I am mortal,' miss Scrooge remonstrated, `and liable to fall.'

`Bear but a touch of my hand there,' said the Spirit, laying it upon her heart,' and you shall be upheld in more than this.'

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either hand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground.

`Good Heaven!' said miss Scrooge, `I was bred in this place. I was a girl here.'

The Spirit gazed upon her mildly. Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old woman's sense of feeling. She was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten.

`Your lip is trembling,' said the Ghost. `And what is that upon your cheek.'

Miss Scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in her voice, that it was a pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead her where she would.

`You recollect the way.' inquired the Spirit.

`Remember it.' cried miss Scrooge with fervour; `I could walk it blindfold.'

`Strange to have forgotten it for so many years.' observed the Ghost. `Let us go on.'

They walked along the road, miss Scrooge recognizing every gate, and post, and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys and girls upon their backs, who called to other boys and girls in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys and girls were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it.

`These are but shadows of the things that have been,' said the Ghost. `They have no consciousness of us.'

The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, miss Scrooge knew and named them every one. Why was she rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them? Why did her cold eye glisten, and her heart leap up as they went past. Why was she filled with gladness when she heard them give each other Merry Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and bye-ways, for their several homes. What was merry Christmas to miss Scrooge? What good had it ever done to her?

`The school is not quite deserted,' said the Ghost. `A solitary child, neglected by her friends and family, is left there still.'

Miss Scrooge said she knew it. And she sobbed.

They left the high-road, by a well-remembered lane, and soon approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little weathercock-surmounted cupola, on the roof, and a bell hanging in it. It was a large house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables; and the coach-houses and sheds were over-run with grass. Nor was it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. There was an earthy savour in the air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by candle-light, and not too much to eat.

They went, the Ghost and miss Scrooge, across the hall, to a door at the back of the house. It opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain deal forms and desks. There stood a lonely girl weeping next to a window. Miss Scrooge stood next to the spirit, and wept as well to see her poor forgotten self as she used to be.

Taking pity on her former self she said `Poor girl' and she cried again.

`I wish,' miss Scrooge muttered and looking about her, after drying her eyes with her sleeve: `but it's too late now.'

`What is the matter?' asked the Spirit.

`Nothing,' said miss Scrooge. `Nothing. There were some boys and girls singing a Christmas Carol at my door last night. I should like to have given them something but instead I chased them away'

I was watching a lecture by Andrew Peterson about imagination and it's collision with faith, and was moved to think about an illustration I did several years back. Pulling out my old card stock journal and thumbing to the page with the crowned guitar playing I wept...

At first I was unsure why this moved me to tears, but after several moments of leaning into the spirit a levee broke in my heart. The summary of all this emotion is to detailed to write down, but can be summarized as .... I Have A Calling!

I now that may be too vague for some, but for me it was the air that stoked the coals. Having meaning is the fundamental element that we all look for. Sadly I spent many years and many pages fooling myself into a mortal meaning, not knowing that I'm a prince that represents the Makers kingdom.

I know that artist are incredibly fickle due to lack of purpose and charge. Take the moment however to trust this weary traveler, that we all are little makers representing our heavenly Maker.

I pray that this blesses your life and moves you further up and further in....

All the best,

Here's the video that spurred this flood of truth:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=SCOgCjIhjj4

When I awoke we were entering an ocean / Sun low on water / Warm as a throat / Golden as a trumpet / We wept / Then soared in a spiritual / Never have I been so happy (Susana Santos Silva, poem by Lawson Fusao Inada)

© Susana Santos Silva, Berlin, 2025, Florian Fritsch

Another shot from the showsheds near Snoqualmie Pass. Focusing was difficult in the low light, but I think this was handheld and that was probably a bad idea.

.

.

.

'Affected and Wept'

Camera: Mamiya RB67 (1974)

Lens: Mamiya-Sedor c 3.8/90mm

Film: Ilford FP4+

Process: Rodinal; 1+25; 9mins

Wellington, Washington

June 2019

For me, nature has always been truly magical, filled with the wonderful colors of earth sky water and fire. And I have always tried to capture those moments with my camera and a little imagination. But now imagination has no limits. And especially for storytelling. What you see here is what I've called the book of Lost Runes. Its meaning, the lost magic of nature. Poetry, words, stories about the beauty of this world mixed with photos that I've collected in the diary of my life.

Sting book of my life.

youtu.be/pBu_EKugl_Q?feature=shared

Let me watch by the fire and remember my days

And it may be a trick of the firelight

But the flickering pages that trouble my sight

Is a book I'm afraid to write

It's the book of my days, it's the book of my life

And it's cut like a fruit on the blade of a knife

And it's all there to see as the section reveals

There's some sorrow in every life

If it reads like a puzzle, a wandering maze

Then I won't understand 'til the end of my days

I'm still forced to remember

Remember the words of my life

There are promises broken and promises kept

Angry words that were spoken, when I should have wept

There's a chapter of secrets, and words to confess

If I lose everything that I possess

There's a chapter on loss and a ghost who won't die

There's a chapter on love where the ink's never dry

There are sentences served in a prison I built out of lies

Though the pages are numbered

I can't see where they lead

For the end is a mystery no-one can read

Another book of my life

There's a chapter on fathers, a chapter on sons

There are pages of conflicts that nobody won

And the battles you lost and your bitter defeat

There's a page where we fail to meet

There are tales of good fortune that couldn't be planned

There's a chapter on god that I don't understand

There's a promise of Heaven and Hell but I'm damned if I see

Though the pages are numbered

I can't see where they lead

For the end is a mystery no-one can read

In the book of my life

Now the daylight's returning

And if one sentence is true

All these pages are burning

And all that's left is you

Though the pages are numbered

I can't see where they lead

For the end is a mystery no-one can read

In the book of my life

And the king said unto Cushi, Is the young man Absalom safe?

And Cushi answered, The enemies of my lord the king, and all that rise against you to do you hurt, be as that young man is.

And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, he said,

O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom.

Would God I had died for you, O Absalom, my son, my son.

I long for scenes where man hath never trod

A place where woman never smiled or wept

There to abide with my Creator, God,

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,

Untroubling and untroubled where I lie

The grass below—above the vaulted sky.

The holidays are upon us my friends, remember to hold your loved ones close and show them how much you care. It is a lonely time for many, including myself. But remember, I am here if you require a friend to listen or even need a shoulder to lean on. Stay positive, stay confident, and most of all, be a testament.

- Eric

Krupps motorisierte Kehrmaschine, die seit 1921 angeboten wurde, half die Säuberung der Straßen zu optimieren und zu rationalisieren. Das dreirädrige Kehrfahrzeug mit Wassertank, Rieselvorrichtung und Besenwalze löste in den 1920er Jahren von Pferden gezogene Kehrmaschinen ab. Die schräg zur Fahrtrichtung stehende Besenwalze kehrte den Straßenschmutz auf die Seite, wo er dann allerdings von Hand aufgefegt werden musste. Das Wasser diente zum Aufweichen des Schmutzes und verhinderte das Aufwirbeln von Staub. Die Dreiradauslegung sorgte für einen kleinen Wendekreis. Die automobile Kehrmaschine leistete nach Herstellerangaben soviel wie vorher zwei Pferdekehrmaschinen oder 80 Arbeiter.

Text einer Informationstafel, gekürzt

Introduced to the market in 1921, Krupp's motorised mechanical sweeper was designed to optimise and rationalise the process of street cleaning. The three-wheeled road-sweeper included a water tank, trickle mechanism and cylinder brrom and replaced horse-drawn sweepers in the 1920s. The cylinder broom was angled to the direction of travel and swept dirt to the side of the road where it then hade to be wept up by hand. The water helped soften the dirt and grime and prvented dust from rising. The three-wheel arrangement gave the vehicle a tight turning radius. According to the manufacturer, the motorised street cleaner was able to to the work of two horse-drawn sweepers or 80 workers.

Text of an information board, abridged

the sun and her flowers

by Rupi Kaur

this is the recipe of life

i said...

as she held me in her arms as i wept

think of those flowers you plant

in the garden each year

they will teach you

that people too

must sit

fall

root

rise

in

order

to

bloom

~*

Another early morning alarm at half four, as Thursday is supposed to be even hotter than yesterday.

We have some water, but its really too early for anything else, and I'm not going to pay for a small cup of Nescafe!

We climb into the vehicles at half five, and move off to the Park offices to clear our paperwork and collect our guide.

Then a twenty minute drive to the gate to Magdhi Gate where our checked paperwork and passports are double-checked.

Fifteen minutes behind schedule, we drive in, and up a lumpy bumpy track to the grassy plains beyond. Here we hoped to see elephants, but didn't. Quite how 30 vehicles all failed to find a single elephant is a mystery.

We drove for a hour before the shout went up, that a tiger had been seen. We cruised over to find the tiger walking through some woods on its way to a watering hole.

But already the craziness was taking hold, as the drivers failed to leave enough room for the tiger to cross the road, this was put right with some shouting, and he wandered off into the bush.

He was later re-seen having caught and killed a cow, eating it just on the edge of visibility, dragging the carcass round to get to the best bits.

Then he was hungry, and the race came to guess where he would cross the road and to jockey for position.

This was nothing compared to what happened next.

The tiger approached, again to find the road full of jeeps, and again a space was cleared so he reached the road at the far end of the group. The tiger ambled off, and that should have been that, but once one driver broke ranks to get as close as possible, all drivers did, so there was the scene of about twenty jeeps, four abreast, tooting horns, revving engines trying to chase the tiger, having already twice that morning disrupted the tiger's behaviour.

We left the scene and went to breakfast.

After which, the jeeps congregated at the watering hole, all was fine until the tiger showed, and you could hear the revving engines of jeeps just arrived, trying to get through where there was no gap.

Which is when there was an accident.

There was an almighty crash and then came the shouting. Meanwhile the tiger reached the watering hole and had a soak.

Not much else to report of the trip, so we returned to the park gates, dropping the guide off at the offices, then back to camp for an hour or so relaxation until dinner at one.

And big news!: there was chips to choose from. My digestion wept with joy.

Jools and I then had an hour's snooze, but upon waking at three, she didn't feel like going, so I went for the afternoon safari on my own.

We went to the area we all visited yesterday, and right away found a cub basking in one of the watering holes.

Only problem is that there is only viewing for two jeeps there, and a long wait can be had to get your turn, even if that is possible

We joined the queue, and Americans in front of us with huge telephotos and asses to match, would not let the driver move, hogging one of the view points.

We managed to get past them, then when we got to the front, the cub got up and walked into the grass, us getting shots all the time.

We left, but then new came that the mother and two more cubs arrived, we wanted to go back, but the line was worse and we would be at the back. So, the driver reversed us up to the "exit", and from there we were able to see all four tigers interacting. But it also meant when the first jeep left, we had to move to let it out.

We moved on.

We went to the spot we had seen the single tiger yesterday, and stayed half an hour. There were some alarm calls but they stopped, and when I said I didn't want to back to the first place, it was agreed we wouldn't.

News then came of a second family group, a fifteen minute drive away. So off we went down a little used track, bumpy, lumpy and going up to a ridge.

And when we got there, a mother and four cubs were lazing around, mostly just out of sight. But on almost adult cub, decided to go hunting. Hunting for peacock.

Just play really, but suddenly the tiger broke into a sprint, we all tried to keep up with it as it ran along the track, in and out of view.

Peacocks and monkeys scattered, and the tiger caught nothing

I planned to continue to introduce you my beloved Alice, Mad Hatter's Daughter, but reality interrupted. My model, Irinka, wrote me that today she was at the funeral of her ex-husband and asked me if I finished some photos from our last series, which we took almost month ago. I didn’t, so I made this one. She told me that she wept a lot, her tears flowed like a river, she feels that it’s all over and wanted so much that he’ll just enter and hug her and those little daughter. He was Russian, fought against Ukraine and his friends concealed his death from her for a long time. He was 35. Meantime Irinka and I made anti-war art, as you could see in an album irbisyonok. Irinka hoped that new photos will distract her. I’ve sent her not only this one, but many others from our earliest photo-op, “Life to play and win”, which she didn’t saw yet. She liked them a lot, but they didn’t lighten her mood. Now she feels that she doesn’t need anything and wants to go over the hills and far away.

Now I feel that we get used to this war, even though I’m living not far from the military airport and we’re seeing and hearing an ominous heavy roaring of many warplanes, sometimes once in every 5-10 minutes, day and night. Nevertheless, the war become the part of our life like the global warming or Covid. But sometimes it breaks into our lives and our dreams – usually in the form of death. Like this time. How to stop it? I don’t know, but I feel that we have to.

I think the eyes have it. "In a scene of loss and sadness, Ruth Heathcoat, the heroine of James Fenimore Cooper’s tale “The Wept of Wish-ton-Wish,” suddenly remembers her forgotten past." (artgallery.yale.edu/collections/objects/443)

At the Lockwood-Mathews Mansion Museum.

"The Lockwood-Mathews Mansion Museum is regarded as one of the earliest and most significant Second Empire Style country houses in the United States. Built by renowned financier and railroad tycoon LeGrand Lockwood from 1864-1868, the Mansion, with its unparalleled architecture and interiors, illustrates magnificently the beauty and splendor of the Victorian Era." See www.lockwoodmathewsmansion.com/about/ for more info.

See more of my scenes from the Lockwood-Mathews Mansion Museum at flic.kr/s/aHsmPUMgLi

Stylist, Graphics & Photography :::: Clix

Credits

Best viewed large:::Press "L" then fullscreen

With what a deep devotedness of woe

I wept thy absence - o'er and o'er again

Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,

And memory, like a drop that, night and day,

Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away!

~Thomas Moore

"Now on the first day of the week Mary Magdalene came early to the tomb, while it was still dark, and saw the stone already taken away from the tomb.

Mary Magdalene came, announcing to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord,” and that He had said these things to her." John 20:1-18

•───────────︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵────────────•

Paprihaven celebrates the foreordained plan of God in His work of redemption for lost sinners culminating in the victorious resurrection of Christ Jesus from the dead.

"“Men of Israel, listen to these words: Jesus the Nazarene, a man attested to you by God with miracles and wonders and signs which God performed through Him in your midst, just as you yourselves know— this Man, delivered over by the predetermined plan and foreknowledge of God, you nailed to a cross by the hands of godless men and put Him to death. But God raised Him up again, putting an end to the agony of death, since it was impossible for Him to be held in its power." Acts 2:22-24

Previous Resurrection Day celebrations at Paprihaven:

Resurrection Day 2016:

www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/25962038802/

Resurrection Day 2017:

www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/33897668742/

Resurrection Day 2018:

www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/41096879842/

Resurrection Day 2019:

www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/32704545437/

Resurrection Day 2020:

www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/49797426658/

Resurrection Day 2021:

www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/51094888779/

Resurrection Day 2022:

www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/52011084873/

You wept oceans of tears the day I left you at the altar,

and I have regretted that day for many, many years of my life.

Now that I have the strength, I shall search for you until the ends of the earth.

And when I do, I shall carry you and love you for all eternity.

EXPLORED June 18, 2009. Thank You.

United States Flag and Christian Flag - HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA!

youtu.be/-KoXt9pZLGM

II Chronicles 7:14 NKJV If My people who are called by My name will humble themselves, and pray and seek My face, and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin and heal their land.

***2018: As I'm watching the casket of Rev. Billy Graham arriving at our U.S. Capitol, I wanted to post this. This is in the schoolyard of a Methodist church here in my hood!

May God bless America.

time.com/18404/billy-graham-evangelism-sermons-video/ His last message! Scroll down to below the caption on the last video:

Birthday Message, 2013

Graham gave his last message to America on his 95th birthday, in November 2013. In a message aired in thousands of churches, Graham said the United States is in great need of a spiritual awakening. “There have been times that I’ve wept as I’ve gone from city to city and I’ve seen how far people have wandered from God,” he said.***

Katas is a complex of #Hindu temples dating back to 6th century A.D., dedicated to #LordShiva. There is a reference in #MahaBharata about a Chasma-e-Alam (Fountain of the World), which has been identified as the water pond of #Katas, popularly known as Kataksha or Katak Shall. According to traditions, Lord Shiva, on the death of his wife #Satti, wept so bitterly that out of the strings of his tears, two water ponds came into existence with emerald waters; one known as Pushkar near #Ajmer in #India and the other called Kataksha at Katas in district #Chakwal.

I know exactly how much he must have missed her and how much he must have cried.

I got drunk, a sleep.

And wept on the dream.

A wild cherry blossoms.

Lensbaby Edge 80

I'm always ready for a war again

Go down that road again

It's all the same

I'm always ready to take a life again

You know I'll ride again

It's all the same (ooh, ooh, ooh)

Tell me who's gon' save me from myself

When this life is all I know

Tell me who's gon' save me from myself

Without you, I'm all alone

Who gon' pray for me?

Take my pain for me?

Save my soul for me?

'Cause I'm alone, you see

If I'm gon' die for you

If I'm gon' kill for you

Then I spilled this blood for you, hey

I fight the world, I fight you, I fight myself

I fight God, just tell me how many burdens left

I fight pain and hurricanes, today I wept

I'm tryna fight back tears, flood on my doorsteps

Life a livin' hell, puddles of blood in the streets

Shooters on top of the building, government aid ain't relief

Earthquake, the body dropped, the ground breaks

The poor run with smoke lungs and Scarface

Who need a hero? (Hero)

You need a hero, look in the mirror, there go your hero

Who on the front lines at ground zero? (Hero)

My heart don't skip a beat, even when hard times bumps the needle

Mass destruction and mass corruption

The souls of sufferin' men

Clutchin' on deaf ears again, rapture is comin'

It's all prophecy and if I gotta be sacrificed for the greater good

Then that's what it gotta be

Mood:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5xERXE7pxI

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

by Thomas Stearns Eliot

S'io credesse chc mia risposta fosse

A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,

Questa Gamma staria senza piu scosse.

Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo

Non torno viva alcun, s'i'odo il vero,

Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question....

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--

(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--

(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

. . . . . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the doors of silent seas.

. . . . . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers.

Stretched on on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald)

brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: "That is not what I meant at all;

That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts

that trail along the floor--

And this, and so much more?--

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while If one, settling a

pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

"That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

We returned to the ship after an amazing morning walking to the roof of the world and looking and listening to St Jonsfjorden Glacier. A well earned break and a quick voyage to the sand bar at Poolepynten where a group of male Walrus did their thing! The wind got up and in true Arctic style the conditions changed in a second, From beautifully still and sunny to overcast and a real chop building. The landing on the zodiacs was debatable but they were dropped into into the boiling ocean and it was deemed the limit of the boats capabilities had been reached, just, so we were on! Jesus wept, the trip out was rough. The worse bit was getting from the ships steps onto the boat which on their own were articulating to their limits on the gimbels, the boat was rising and falling by a good three metres with the zodiacs doing the same in the opposite direction, we nearly lost a guide and passenger over the side but those who braved it, a lot dropped out, we got to land. Silently we walked slowly to a safe distance of these males doing what male Walrus do, play-fighting by the sea. The wind had really got up by now, the guides looked towards where the zodiacs were beached, we all did not fancy a night stuck on the spit so we turned tail and got back to the boats. Glad I came out in such treacherous conditions but this is the nature of the expedition. Back on the boat and we all, guides and expedition leaders alike took a deep breathe in!

In the evening we saw whale blows, about four whales spotted, we had our binoculars ready but no camera! Then right off our port bow a giant Blue Whale surfaced so close, it was easily as long as the ship and stayed with us for what seemed ages, then dived off and one site of it's fluke, gone, silence on board and even the Captain said later "It was the best sighting of a Blue Whale he had ever seen"

The Glass House Mountains is a culturally significant landscape for indigenous groups with long connections to this region. In the language of the Gubbi Gubbi people, the Mount Ngungun's name means "faces" and is pronounced in English as "noo-noo"

Gubbi Gubbi elder, Dr Eve Desl fondly recalls her mother sharing ancient stories about the rumblings of the mountains. She believes these stories may arise from the time when volcanic activity formed the Glass House Mountains.

Living a traditional indigenous lifestyle in the area, their people did not climb the mountain peaks. They have a saying; show respect by looking up and not standing on top of something.

The aboriginal legend of Glass House Mountains has it, that Tibrogargan, the father, and Beerwah, the mother, had many children; Coonowrin, the eldest, Beerburrum, the Tunbubudla twins, the Coochin twins, Ngungun, Tibberoowuccum, Miketebumulgrai, and Elimbah.

One day, Tibrogargan was gazing out to sea and noticed a great rising of the waters. Hurrying off to gather his younger children, in order to flee to the safety of the mountains in the west, he called out to Coonowrin to help his mother Beerwah, who was again with child. Looking back to see how Coonowrin was assisting Beerwah, Tibrogargan was greatly angered to see him running off alone. He pursued Coonowrin and, raising his club, struck the latter such a mighty blow that it dislodged Coonowrin’s neck, and he has never been able to straighten it since.

When the floods had subsided and the family returned to the plains, the other children teased Coonowrin about his crooked neck.

Feeling ashamed, Coonowrin went over to Tibrogargan and asked for his forgiveness, but filled with shame at his son’s cowardice, Tibrogargan could do nothing but weep copious tears, which, trickling along the ground, formed a stream that flowed into the sea.

Then Coonowrin went to his brothers and sisters, but they also wept at the shame of their brother’s cowardice. The lamentations of Coonowrin’s parents and of his brothers and sisters at his disgrace explain the presence of the numerous small streams of the area. Tibrogargan then called to Coonowrin, asking him why he had deserted his mother. Coonowrin replied that as Beerwah was the biggest of them all she should be able to take care of herself. He did not know that she was again pregnant, which was the reason for her great size. Then Tibrogargan turned his back on his son and vowed that he would never look at him again.

Source: Glasshouse Country,

Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service, Sunshine Coast Council.

Working through and retouching some older images.

In the sterile hum of his lab,

he worked beneath the cold eye of fluorescence.

Wires curled like ivy over steel frames,

cogs turned in precise obedience,

and the machine whispered promises

of order, peace,

perfect little smiles.

He called it The Harmoniser.

A name soft as lullabies,

meant to calm the fears of the weary —

parents who dreamt of quiet dinners,

of laughter without tantrums.

The machine would smooth the rough edges of youth,

polish them into something manageable,

something pristine.

The first test was small: a boy

with a cowlick defying gravity,

a defiant fire in his eyes.

The machine hummed, lights flickered,

and when the boy stepped out,

his hair lay flat,

his gaze hollow.

He said "yes, sir" and "no, ma’am"

in tones drained of spirit.

The scientist marveled at his success.

The parents wept with joy.

But the boy did not laugh.

His jokes, once absurd and sprawling like weeds,

withered into silence.

More children came: wild and loud,

spilling with questions and wonder.

They left the machine

still,

obedient,

perfectly behaved.

The scientist never noticed

how the laughter dimmed in his town,

how chalk drawings disappeared from sidewalks,

how parents whispered about

dreams their children no longer had.

It wasn’t until he saw a little girl,

sitting beneath an oak tree,

staring at her hands

as if they were foreign things,

that he began to wonder.

Her fingers traced shapes in the dirt,

and then she stopped,

as though creativity itself

were a sin too great to bear.

He went home that night

and stared at his blueprints.

He had wanted perfection,

but perfection, it seemed,

had teeth.

By dawn, the townsfolk found the machine

its wires torn, its frame shattered,

its creator gone.

But the children stayed quiet,

their hollow eyes unchanging,

their perfect smiles

etched into the silence.

Midjourney, Photoshop, ChatGPT

It is all I could do . . .

I think the eyes have it. "In a scene of loss and sadness, Ruth Heathcoat, the heroine of James Fenimore Cooper’s tale “The Wept of Wish-ton-Wish,” suddenly remembers her forgotten past." (artgallery.yale.edu/collections/objects/443)

At the Lockwood-Mathews Mansion Museum.

"The Lockwood-Mathews Mansion Museum is regarded as one of the earliest and most significant Second Empire Style country houses in the United States. Built by renowned financier and railroad tycoon LeGrand Lockwood from 1864-1868, the Mansion, with its unparalleled architecture and interiors, illustrates magnificently the beauty and splendor of the Victorian Era." See www.lockwoodmathewsmansion.com/about/ for more info.

See more of my scenes from the Lockwood-Mathews Mansion Museum at flic.kr/s/aHsmPUMgLi

A digital Mona Lisa tapestry

Tapestry - Carole King

My life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue

An everlasting vision of the ever-changing view

A wondrous, woven magic in bits of blue and gold

A tapestry to feel and see, impossible to hold

Once amid the soft silver sadness in the sky

There came a man of fortune, a drifter passing by

He wore a torn and tattered cloth around his leathered hide

And a coat of many colors, yellow-green on either side

He moved with some uncertainty, as if he didn't know

Just what he was there for, or where he ought to go

Once he reached for something golden hanging from a tree

And his hand came down empty

Soon within my tapestry along the rutted road

He sat down on a river rock and turned into a toad

It seemed that he had fallen into someone's wicked spell

And I wept to see him suffer, though I didn't know him well

As I watched in sorrow, there suddenly appeared

A figure gray and ghostly beneath a flowing beard

In times of deepest darkness, I've seen him dressed in black

Now my tapestry's unraveling - he's come to take me back

He's come to take me back

At 620 feet, it's the second tallest year-round waterfall in the US. Native American legend explaining the origin of the falls says that a tribe was infected with a deadly disease and was in danger of dying. The daughter of the chief went to the top of a cliff and prayed to the Great Spirit to find how she could stop the epidemic. She was told that to stop the epidemic, she would have to throw herself off the cliff and sacrifice herself. She did this and died. The next day, the chief found his daughter's body at the bottom of the cliff. He wept bitterly and cried out to the Great Spirit to give him a sign if this sacrifice was not in vain. At that moment, water began to fall from the top of the cliff, forming Multnomah Falls. The legend also says that under the right conditions, you can see the daughter's face in the waterfall.

Lyrics: Nikos Ykatsos

Music: Manos Hatzidakis

First version: Dimitra Yalani

Other versions:

Yioryos Ntalaras

The one who was in pain in the midst of life

the one who was crying like a little child

is now not asking anything more from you

only in dreaming will he look for you [now].

White dove, [out there] in the blue

you gave me your hand,

White dove, my wing [is] black*,

every summer, I will be waiting for you.

When I took up the heavy cross

you laid it upon me to come back to find you,

and when I wept like Mary **

it was springtime and the First of May.

White dove, [out there] in the blue

you gave me your hand, that I might have a companion

White dove, my wing [is] black*,

every summer, I will be waiting for you.

White dove, (with)in the "overcast"

you "offered" me (a, the) "hand", to have (as a) "companion"

white dove, black "feather" of mine

every summer, I will "anticipate" you...

Nikos Ykatsos

m.youtube.com/watch?v=WJH5pKhdHNU

youtu.be/bh8IyqdCB3o

The reenactment of Jesus' Crucifixion can be an inconvenience to those who use West 18th Street as a thoroughfare on Good Friday, or for those who did not read the posted signs that parking was banned and had their cars towed very quickly by The City of Chicago. Or, it can be a very moving and emotional event for Catholics in the area, who come out as an expression of Faith.

This statue takes place in the Summer Garden....Niobe was a daughter of Tantalus . Niobe boasted of her fourteen children, seven male and seven female (the Niobids), to Leto who only had two children, the twins Apollo and Artemis. It was on occasion of the annual celebration in honor of Latona and her offspring, Apollo and Diana, when the people of Thebes were assembled, their brows crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense to the altars and paying their vows, that Niobe appeared among the crowd. Her attire was splendid with gold and gems, and her face as beautiful as the face of an angry woman can be. She stood and surveyed the people with haughty looks. "What folly," said she, "is this! to prefer beings whom you never saw to those who stand before your eyes! Why should Latona be honored with worship rather than I? My father was Tantalus, who was received as a guest at the table of the gods; my mother was a goddess. My husband built and rules this city, Thebes; and Phrygia is my paternal inheritance. Wherever I turn my eyes I survey the elements of my power; nor is my form and presence unworthy of a goddess. To all this let me add, I have seven sons and seven daughters, and look for sons-in-law and daughters-in-law of pretensions worthy of my alliance. Have I not cause for pride? Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan's daughter, with her two children? I have seven times as many. Fortunate indeed am I, and fortunate I shall remain! Will any one deny this?

Using arrows, Artemis killed Niobe's daughters and Apollo killed Niobe's sons. According to some versions, at least one Niobid (usually Meliboea) was spared. Their father, Amphion, at the sight of his dead sons, either killed himself or was killed by Apollo for having sworn revenge. Devastated, Niobe fled back to Mount Sipylus and was turned into stone, and, as she wept unceasingly, waters started to pour from her petrified complexion. Mount Sipylus indeed has a natural rock formation which resembles a female face, and it has been associated with Niobe since ancient times and described by Pausanias. ( Wikipedia)

Katas is a complex of Hindu temples dating back to 6th century A.D., dedicated to Lord Shiva. There is a reference in Maha Bharata about a Chasma-e-Alam (Fountain of the World), which has been identified as the water pond of Katas, popularly known as Kataksha or Katak Shall. According to traditions, Lord Shiva, on the death of his wife Satti, wept so bitterly that out of the strings of his tears, two water ponds came into existence with emerald waters; one known as Pushkar near Ajmer in India and the other called Kataksha at Katas in district Chakwal.

I know exactly how much he must have missed her and how much he must have cried.

"I've wanted to be the light one, the simple one, the sweet one. Last night I learned - or perhaps was reminded - that I am none of these things. I am powerful.

-Michele Gardella

Golden as the light which filtered through autumn leaves, her wounds wept for the pain callously dealt. And you add insult to injury.

Be a doll and meander on over to Kelsie's instagram to see her lovely illustrations: instagram.com/__seasonpoem/

Behind the scenes: aleahmichele.com/uncategorized/bts-insult-to-injury/

warehouse, Grand Prairie, Texas

It's more than one kind of pain, more than one kind of theft

And it's bitter as the night sweet Jesus wept

She stole my heart, age stole the fire

They stole my prairie when they strung all that wire

From Radney Foster - Went For A Ride

Holga

2008

Mission/Trial Report 14

Date: 08-30-2325

Location: Council Chambers, Citadel

Defendants Present:

• Cian Lios

• Daisy MacKenzie

• Fazzy Constantine

• Noah Constantine

• Ryoma Halvern

• Tai Astrofengia

• T1NM4N

• Vahenir

• Scrap

• Zeth Ryder

BluShock Special Witness:

• Jaron

Prosecutor:

• Tobias Sidonis

It had been some time since the “former” BluShock crew’s last mission on Stackspire Colony, where C-Sec—led by the newly installed BluShock Commander Robert Kean—finally apprehended Fazzy Constantine and his crew. Now, dragged back to the very heart of galactic law, they were forced to stand before the Citadel Council and answer for their alleged crimes.

The list was long: Noveria. The Citadel bombings. The destruction of Stackspire. The accusations were heavy, the weight of the galaxy pressing down on them. The crew knew they had their evidence ready, their witnesses lined up, their innocence to prove. But Daisy reminded them at every turn that this was a stitch-up from the very beginning. The Council wasn’t looking for truth—they were looking for blood.

As the day began, the sound of sirens split the wards. The apartment doors blew open under the force of C-Sec. Fazzy and his crew’s old friend from Valtoria—now C-Sec agent Saeed Massani—entered with the unit. He wasn’t here as an ally. He was here as law. He was here to do his job. And so the crew was marched out.

The journey through the Wards was chaos incarnate. Barricades, shouting mobs, and angry citizens lined the streets. “Murderers!” “Terrorists!” “Traitors!” Some cursed their names. Some wept for lost loved ones in the bombings the crew had actually prevented. None of it mattered. The people had already been told the story. The truth had been written out of history.

The elevator doors opened to the Council Chambers. What awaited them was a scene of grandeur and judgment. Crimson-leaved trees, sculpted planters, pristine staircases ascending into the chamber of galactic justice itself. The Council was assembled: an Orc councillor, a Turian, an Asari, and a Salarian—the brother of the slain Administrator Calzen of Noveria. Prosecutor Tobias Sidonis presided over the case, his voice cold and sharp as he read the charges.

The crew were lined up, cuffed, made to climb the steps to the platform of judgment. Their witnesses were already there: Gavin Tarius and Darrek Solan of Noveria. Marco and Leo, the garage brothers of Stackspire. Private investigator Havid Gabour and Battle Ready Pizza Joint owner, A Krogan. Then the accusations came. Twenty counts. Smuggling. Murder. Bombings. Destruction. Fabricated evidence was hurled onto holoscreens for all to see: falsified images of Fazzy in a relationship with the Salarian Administrator; Tai Astrofengia handing over a suspicious package; the long-missing BluShock operative Chastian Necrosa setting the Citadel bomb timers. The lies were as grotesque as they were elaborate.

The crew spoke, one by one, defending themselves. Their innocence was unwavering. They reminded the chamber of their deeds: the evacuation of Stackspire, the halting of the Citadel bombings, the saving of billions from galactic annihilation—not once, but twice. But the Council’s faces remained stone.

The witnesses were called. The Stackspire trio spoke truth to power and confirmed the crew’s actions had been heroic. But betrayal was present as well—the Turian receptionist from Noveria, who once thanked BluShock for saving him, now lied under oath. He declared they were behind the massacres at Port Hanshan, his words dripping with falsity, his motives bought and paid for by unknown hands.

Then came Jaron. The dragon-being from Duneshade, Icaros. He had traveled far to stand in their defense. His evidence cut through the lies: recorded footage of the Stackspire president himself planting charges, abandoning the colony, and triggering the explosion that would later be pinned on Fazzy and his crew. His proof revealed the trap for what it was: a staged execution, an attempt to erase BluShock from the galaxy.

But even that was not enough.

The chamber quieted as the Council withdrew to deliberate. When they returned, the sentence was swift and merciless. Guilty. Guilty on all counts. Their heroism meant nothing. Their sacrifices meant nothing. The truth meant nothing.

Prosecutor Sidonis gave the order: Purgatory. The infamous space prison where convicts are sent to vanish into silence. A place so remote, so forgotten, that escape was not even a rumor. Fazzy, Daisy, Noah, and the rest would be cast into its abyss for an undefined sentence. Their ranks were stripped. Their honor burned. Their legacy erased.

Daisy spat words at the Orc councillor, a defiant curse about his manhood, her voice echoing as the crew was marched away. Saeed Massani, once a friend, once a comrade, carried out the Council’s will and led them to their doom.

Outside, celebrations broke across the galaxy. Illium News Network broadcast the verdict: “Justice has been served. Fazzy Constantine and the BluShock crew are incarcerated.” In the streets, there were cheers. In the Presidium, there was relief. For most, it was over.

But for Fazzy and his crew, stripped of everything, this was not the end. Somewhere, beyond the sirens and the cells, lay a future untold. Could they rise again? Could they ever return to the galaxy as its heroes?

That remains the unanswered question.

End of Report.

Captain Fishbone wept as he flew over the once prosperous Caribbean seas. His crew had abandoned him, leaving him with nothing but one ship, his modified flying tugboat called the Rustbucket.

My entry to the Eurobricks Space Pirates Contest.

The Ship is based on Bdubs' fantastic flying tugboat Minecraft build in his Building with Bdoubleo series. I plan to make another moc/edit based closer on the original, but need to build a castle wall/bridge for the background.

This is one of my favorite builds and photos I've done recently, my builds and photography/editing skills have improved a lot in the past couple years.

To God be all the glory

Facebook Connect: www.facebook.com/The.Eternal.Sunshine.Page

1x.com: 1x.com/v2/#/photo/38213/

I was going to write you a love letter but found the words to be too heavy, butterflies nailed to a page, so then I thought to use the spaces between words, the way boats in the distance make a poem of the sea, but the spaces though quivering with heat were too small, I threw them away, I brought in the words no one can say to another except in the dark, when all is lost or nearly lost, where all beasts are the same, and all the beasts are beautiful, and even that was not enough, so I set them free and the sky took them up and everywhere lovers reached or turned away and the woman in the subway laughed with no one and the man next to her wept and across the sea you turned in your sleep and

Hita City (Oita Prefecture) Japan

I’ve smiled

I’ve glistened

I’ve wept

I’ve mourned

[Wishing you all a sparkling Christmas. May 2012 be filled with love, health and happiness.]

.

Middelgrundsfortet or Fort Middelgrund, known as Ungdomsøen (The Youth Island) since 2015, is a sea fort located on an artificial island in the Øresund between Copenhagen and Malmö. The fortress is constructed at a point where the seabed is 7 meters below the water surface, and at the northern meeting point of the straits Kongedybet and Hollænderdybet.

History

Christian IX's government constructed the fort between 1890–94 to serve as a part of Copenhagen's coastal fortifications, partly using material excavated from Frihavnen. It is one of three artificial islands that were created to defend the entrance to Copenhagen's harbour. (The other two are Flakfortet and Trekroner Fort.)

Middelgrundsfortet was the largest sea fortress in the world, and is still the largest man-made island without abutment, with an area, including wave breakers, of approximately 70 000 m²; the buildings total approximately 15 000 m². A HAWK battery was placed on the island in the 1950s. The fortress remained an active military installation until 1984; in 2002 it was sold to a private investor.

Wikipedia

A Salty Dog

All hands on deck, we've run a float,

I heard the Captain cry.

Explore the ship, replace the cook,

Let no one leave alive.

Across the straits, around the horn,

How far can sailors fly?

A twisted path, our tortured course,

And no one left alive.

We sailed for parts unknown to man,

Where ships come home to die.

No lofty peak, nor fortress bold,

Could match our captain's eye.

Upon the seventh seasick day,

We made our port of call.

A sand so white, and sea so blue,

No mortal place at all.

We fired the guns, and burned the mast,

And rowed from ship to shore.

The captain cried, we sailors wept,

Our tears were tears of joy!

Now many moons and many Junes,

Have passed since we made land.

A Salty Dog, the seaman's log,

Your witness, my own hand.

Procol Harum