View allAll Photos Tagged atomizer
Some training for World Anthotype Day (3rd Saturday in August).
Pickled Beetroots "atomized" with a hand mixer, dye extracted with a 50/50 solution of 96% ethanol and H2O and finally strained through a cotton cloth.
Glossy inkjet paper coated x 2 with the emulsion (drying in between).
Wine leafs.
Cooked for 7h in full July Nordic sunshine today.
Quick rinse in water and hanged to dry before scanning.
Slow and low contrast alternative photographic process.
I recommend Malin Fabbri's book "Anthotypes" if you want to learn more about this.
Seljalandsfoss's neighbor, only accessible by getting your feet in the glacial water, only to find yourself in the wettest spot of the whole island.
One giant natural atomizer.
There is a part of me
This part wants to be like dust
It wants to go to heaven
And atomize far above in the sky
To slowly disintegrate
And to merge with the soft light of the moon
I find it difficult to be to near to folks that pile on the perfume. Less is more. Happy Macro Monday!
(Thank you all so much for your comments and favorites! I'm overwhelmed by the response to my photo.)
Minifig for scale. This is intentionally small. I imagine it as some urban warfare drone meant to tool around in city streets until some poor bastard walks in front of it and gets atomized by that big gun. Somewhat inspired by the drone tanks in Arkham Knight.
*FFWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH*
....okay, jet afterburners don't atomize people. Not this one. There should be a crispy edgelord in that giant scortchmark. Wait, his ax was right there, where is---
*SSHHKTKTKK*
Found it.....
There is a part of me
This part wants to be like dust
It wants to go to heaven
And atomize far above in the sky
To slowly disintegrate
And to merge with the soft light of the moon
Details best viewed in Original Size.
The general water temperatures of geysers and geothermal springs can usually be judged by the colors of the heat-loving organisms that live in them. Surprisingly, the "cooler' the color, the hotter the water with turquoise blue signaling the hottest while dark browns and blacks indicate relatively "cooler" water.
According to Wikipedia, Artemisia Geyser is part of the Cascade Group which includes the Atomizer Geyser. Its eruptions last for 15 to 25 minutes once or twice per day. The eruption water fountain reaches a height of 30 feet (9.1 m). Artemisia's pool overflows quietly for many hours before an eruption but gives no visible warning of an impending eruption until the sudden increase in overflow that marks the eruption's onset. Eruptions are accompanied by a strong underground thumping caused by steam bubbles collapsing in the geyser's channels. Artemisia also experiences minor eruptions lasting about 5 minutes. These minor eruptions are followed by major eruptions within six hours. Minor eruptions, however, are rare and years may pass between episodes of minor eruptions. In 2009, intervals between eruptions ranged from 9 to 36 hours, averaging 18 hours, 43 minutes.
This panorama was constructed using Photoshop CS6 to stitch together horizontally three images captured from the hiking trail to the east of the Geyser.
You get these with every pair of glasses you purchase. I use all the cleaning fluid in these little bottles and still my glasses are dirty.
The image is about 4 cm (1.5 inches) on the long edge.
My dresser is exceptional long and deep so I get to put many things in little vignettes on top based on color or metals or materials. This is a photo of two of my favorite fragrances. I can smell them now as I type this.
I think they are part of my DNA. No, seriously, I do. When I put them on, I feel like dancing and twirling. Must be the alcohol in them. Hahahahahahaha!
For my Flickr groups…
My "technical grade" isopropyl alcohol atomizer spray bottle for cleaning delicate components, has been repurposed to kill novel corona virus.
#MacroMondays
#Plastic
HMM!
A 2 km (1.24 miles) stream, on a small plateau, in one of the wettest region on earth, hurtles 2.8 cubic meters (100 cubic feet) of rain water on a 340 meters (1115 feet) plunge every second atomizing a whole lot of it into mist. The Nohkalikai waterfall near Cherrapunji, Meghalaya.
No one can make a perfect picture of this waterfall, it is not possible. Take a few pictures, then keep aside your tools.
Savour the moment, immerse in it. The rain, the breeze, the fog, this white column of water, the roar, the mist, the feel...
Raw nature, honest, magical, ethereal. Spiritual.
The best picture is the one you take away in your mind. Play it when you want. When the memory fades, go and seek such a moment again.
My idea of God, my idea of a pilgrimage.
Meghalaya album: www.flickr.com/photos/santanu_sen/albums/72157667535175284
All rights reserved - Tous droits réservés
Place : Miroir d'eau (water mirror), place de la Bourse, Center, Bordeaux, France
Miroir d'Eau, Bordeaux, France
christinelebrasseur.blogspot.com/
Darckr by Laurent Henocque - More photos - DNA - Ipernity - MySpace - YouTube - Twitter - JPGMag - Facebook - Google
Model: Luis Domínguez
None of my photos are HDR or blended images, they are taken from just one shot
Sony A900 + Minolta50mm + 2 manual flashes + 1 beauty dish + water atomizer
Strobist info: One nude full power strobe from back, one strobe with white umbrella from left and a beauty dish from right
Info strobist: un flash desnudo trasero, uno con paraguas blanco desde la izquierda y un beauty dish desde la derecha
Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved
The Berserker V1.5 rebuildable tank atomizer, designed by Alex from VapersMD, one of the best mouths to lung RTA's to give outstanding flavor. Measuring at 24mm the Berserker V1.5 can hold 2.5ml of E-Liquid with the glass tank section while the metal tank section can accommodate 3ml. Airflow can be changed from increments of 1.0mm, 1.2mm, 1.4mm, 1.6mm and 1.8mm giving users the choice of versatility for user preference.
At seventy per, the plume barely rises—Abendrot-limned and spectral—a ghost-thread unraveling against the burnished anvil of an Arizona sky on BNSF’s high-density southern transcon route. Exhaust becomes less substance than suggestion, the diesels' breath atomized into the twilight's vast machinery of wind and thermal. What we witness here: three locomotives' exhalation dispersed by velocity, the slipstream creating a wake of turbulence that tears the smoke into ephemeral cursive before it can properly coalesce.
Engineer L. A. Walters throttles the consist through the evening’s golden hour on 14 September 2025 at 1829 in unflinching command of the eastbound Z‑STOWSP7‑13A, the time-sensitive Stockton to Willow Springs UPS intermodal, all 57 loads and 4,576 tons of commerce strung out behind him in 5,360 feet of steel vertebrae bleeding time across the Seligman Sub. His conductor, D. M. Oberdan, no doubt calling signals while the prime movers at their back cycle through combustion’s ancient alchemy. The whole procession, already eight hours in the red, hemorrhaging schedule against the desert’s indifferent chronometry.
Here, where the railroad camp, later, town of Canyon Diablo once festered—that accidental terminus born of the Atlantic & Pacific’s heads' hubris, standing on depleted coffers in their attempt to create an alternate central-southern transcon connection; the railroad’s surveyors having pushed their grade lines along the 35th parallel beyond the canyon’s 544-foot maw and 250-some-odd-foot depth only to discover their corporate masters lacked the capital to span the void, notwithstanding the delivery of an incorrectly measured bridge span.
In contrast: the dispersal of spent fuel emanating into the atmosphere from the orange and black consist mirrors the financial hiatus that scattered men and dreams across this callous, unforgiving, meteor-pocked landscape, a slipstream of economic faux pas redeemed creating its own wake of turbulence in human lives.
For several months the westward drive of laying track come hell or high water beyond the gaping gap of Canyon Diablo simply stopped, as if terra firma had run out. It had. And from that enforced pause rose a makeshift frontier false-front Potemkin village of tin, tents, and splinters, split by rock-riddled and unkempt, aptly named Hell Street, sprouting like an ephemeral but poisonous mushroom with no less than fourteen saloons, ten gambling establishments, four whorehouses, two dance halls, all operating ‘round the clock, amid the clamor of tinny piano reels clashing with raucous laughter and the thick reek of cheap whiskey mingling with unwashed sweat and gunpowder haze, and one railway station where trains disgorged passengers into a percolating purgatory.
Rumors, fits, and starts of bridge financing—bonds floated and defaulted, construction crews hired and dismissed, steel ordered and canceled, a delivered but too-short bridge span that had to be refabricated—only fed the town’s volatility as the everlasting desert wind fuels the flames of a wildfire. Legend has it that town-folk deputized a Pollyanna sheriff at three one afternoon; by eight that evening he was measured for a pine box. Five more followed, each meeting their end in a month’s time. No church, no lasting law, just that patient Devil’s canyon waiting while men killed each other over cards, claims, and dames, and the simple boredom of being trapped between rails that led nowhere and a bridge on paper to somewhere.
In the mere months of its dubious existence, Canyon Diablo, reputed as meaner than Tombstone or Dodge City, was a true Hell-on-Wheels tale at the edge of an abyss, a debauched boomtown stranded at the End-of-the-Line—paydays, pistols, and portable sins arriving by train and evaporating by dawn.
Off to the left of the image, barely visible as dusk gathers, stand the abutments of the original span—massive blocks of rose-colored stone quarried from the Kaibab formation and dressed by Italian stonemasons whose chisels rang against gritty limestone while earshot gunfire echoed from Hell Street. Those immigrant craftsmen, carrying Old World precision into this New World chaos, built their stonework to last centuries while the town around them measured its existence in hours and dollars and the brief arcs of lead finding flesh.
Then the money materialized—Eastern capitalists finally releasing their grip—and the bridge rose like an improbable but steely prayer across the chasm, its spans carrying not just trains but the demise of Canyon Diablo, evaporating fairly quickly, though lingering as a sketchy stop, fading back into the desert from whence it came at the turn of the century, once the locomotives resumed their westward hunger, leaving only wind-scoured foundations and those patient stone abutments that still stand witness to what human determination can build and abandon in the spaces between capricious economic cycles, however brief or seemingly unbridgeable.
Amid all this chaos, one man’s story lingers longer than the town itself. In the scrub, not too far from the right-of-way, lies Johann Hermann Wolf, the lone grave left from Canyon Diablo’s Boot Hill—that solitary German dreamer from Sachsen-Anhalt whose trading post dreams ended in Arizona dust at 69 on September 3, 1899. The mountain man and trapper who operated his store at Wolf’s Crossing on the Little Colorado, twelve miles north toward Leupp, and who holds the singular distinction of dying peacefully in a place where peace was rarer than water. After the Second World War his kinfolk came from the Vaterland—his sister Frau Geheimrathin Becker, his brother Franz, the retired Major General from Dresden—and erected, in true Teutonic fashion and words, a proper headstone above the only grave that mattered enough to remember. On scalding summer days, it seems, if one stands motionless to behold the desolate landscape—the sun baking sweat into salt on your brow, the faint hum of distant heat waves thrumming in your ears—his ghost rises as a Fata Morgana above the superheated earth, in a shimmering displacement of light and memory that bends the horizon like grief bends time.
At track speed, the locomotives’ discharge lacks density to form proper columns; instead, it becomes calligraphy written in air, its strokes immediately erased by the wind’s editing hand—carrying the faint, oily bite of diesel fumes that lingers in the nostrils like a fading promise. Behind them, the desert holds its breath—the low rumble of rails vibrating through boots and bones—the same desert that swallowed Canyon Diablo’s brief, violent flowering and then returning the land to silence.
Walters' and Oberdan's relief crew has already been called to relieve them somewhere ahead in the gathering dark; the eternal human struggle against time, distance, space, and mechanical entropy plays out in the Zwischenzeit—the in-between—beneath stars that witnessed Canyon Diablo’s rise and fall and will witness whatever comes next.
As a fellow hoghead, I suspect Walters knows this stretch as well as any other engineer in his pool; eyeing the ammeter, speedo, and accelerometer keeping the throttle where the load holds clean, and minding his air as the track ahead dips and rises with the desolate terrain.
Walters rolls on…
Normally nearly invisible at such velocity—the diesels' discharge catches the refracted light of a sky turned furnace-orange, revealing itself as a momentary signature against the void. Each wisp tells stories of controlled explosion, of 17,600 horses beating in four-stroke rhythm while the earth curves away beneath spinning wheels and the San Francisco Peaks loom in the distance like volcanic sentinels—those ancient cinder cones and the eroded stratovolcano named by Spanish explorers for the Poverello of Assisi, their sacred slopes rising from the Colorado Plateau’s basaltic foundation, with Humphreys Peak crowned at 12,633 feet above this high desert theater where human ambition plays out its brief dramas against geological timelessness. The mountains stand witness to this latest iteration of our restless need to move cargo and dreams across the world’s spine at speeds that would have seemed supernatural to our ancestors, yet feel merely quotidian now beneath the desert’s infinite, indifferent gaze—never fast enough to outrun the weight of all the untold dubious stories buried in the ground beneath these rails.
All rights reserved 2025 - Frederick Manfred Simon
Here's a rear-quarter view of Southern Pacific narrow gauge locomotive #18, running in the Silverton, Colorado yard as she prepares for a Trains Magazine photo shoot. This image provides a clear view of the unusual "whale-back" tender design that was used on some oil-burners. So named because the rounded sides and top resemble the back of a whale, these tenders were optimized for carrying liquids, including fuel oil and water. Back in the day, an engine like this would typically be burning heavy bunker oil, and the tender design included steam lines from the boiler, for the purpose of heating the oil to make it flow and atomize more easily. Today, most oil-burners, including the 18, burn waste motor oil, which flows and atomizes pretty easily, even in relatively cold temperatures.
I was getting ready to leave the El Super when I noticed a truck in AD paint. At first; it seemed like any other of their trucks, but then it quickly dawned on me; It wasn't one of their McNeilus'. With that realization, I ran to it to get a good photo, and with good timing, as the truck turned left right after.
An Interesting thing you can see is that the original arm was replaced at one point with that of a crocodile, paired with atomizer grippers.
While I knew AD had these in the past, I thought they had completely standardized their fleet by this point. Thankfully, I am wrong, but, with that said, I don't think this truck won't be here for much longer.
Anthotype on cheap generic watercolor paper.
July 8, 2023.
Spinach sensitizer (roughly 150 g fresh spinach leaves atomized with hand mixer, diluted with 96% alcohol and strained through a cotton cloth).
Three 4x5" LF negatives of one of my children's Lucia Gown as "objects".
Exposed for 4 hours in full Swedish July sunlight.
Scanned without further treatment.
Improvements made from the original Nebula Atomizer: Overhauled Cockpit with new guns, Extra red, totally rebuilt cargo section with added belly cargo bay, totally overhauled wing connections, and a few other added details (like the cockpit antenna and the silver tube).
Draws Inspiration from 6887: Allied Avenger
Just some tiny beads of nature intruding on our ordered city landscape with a background painted by an urban child :)
Peace and Noise!
MushroomBrain the Observer
news.baolongan.vn/vws-gives-hcmc-long-an-kien-giang-us-te...
"The trucks, the first special-use units of their kind in Việt Nam and with advantages over other vehicles currently in use, were designed on the company’s orders.
Each can carry 10 tonnes of garbage and is equipped with a waste compression compartment. They also have a sewage leachate container to prevent effluents from running onto the street. They have an automatic atomizer to deodorize unpleasant smells and give off a fragrant smell whenever they stop, thus not causing discomfort to people in other vehicles.
The eco-friendly trucks are powered by compressed natural gas that helps reduce harmful emissions, and have a system of cameras that allow their drivers to monitor their surroundings."
"Hey. I see you have the Atomizer 9000. How do you like it?
"Oh.. er... hi there. Er... I like it fine. Saved me from a number of tight spots. Last one was a rabid Jovian Tigerwolf. But with the Atomizer I was able to turn it into a fine red mist."
" What would you say, if Stanley Electric offered you the same kind of power in a smaller package?"
"Is that possible?"
"It's not only possible. Stanley Electric have already done it. Here it is: The Stanley Electric Boggart 3000. Small. Elegant. Deadly. Boggart 3000!"
(Stanley Electric ad, ca. 2012)
Credit to Prokhor for the bulb design.
Done in PMG 0.6.
"Macro Mondays" "Upside-down"
This shot was created by hanging the atomized (Elastic band around the bottle with a knotted string between it and the bottle, then tied to a tincture frame. Shone a light on the background to illuminate.
Thanks to the power of tonemapping I was finally able to salvage this capture of Spray Falls, which is one of the coolest waterfalls I have visited in Mount Rainier National Park. It is located in the Mowich Lake area which is in the long forgotten Northwest corner of the park, where fewer tourists visit. Unfortunately, I have not made it back up here since this one and only visit. It truly requires a truck or SUV vehicle with its bumpy terrain, narrow roads and elevation gain. It was an interesting drive up there cruising in my Honda Accord. Being one of my earlier waterfall captures I can proudly say this was one of my last waterfall images captured before purchasing my tripod. Not too bad for handheld, though I don't recommend it at all.
I am pleased to have finally achieved this image, I had worked on it off and on never being pleased with the results. If you are visiting Mount Rainier National Park I would definitely recommend visiting this 280 foot beast. Keep in mind though, it is not a convenient waterfall at all and you cannot access it from the two popular destinations Paradise & Sunrise. Thanks for checking this out. Enjoy!
Atomized color and a lovely plant collide . I have no idea what it's called but It suffers my abuse and yet year after year it gets bigger and better. So in honor of this 'Soul plant', { we were destined to share a life ]
I played in Picasa. Thank you ALL of my flickr Friends..Your many visits and comments keep me working on my pix and coming back, What an opportunity I've had getting to see what each of YOU are up to. I'm always surprised and ever entertained. This is how you make me feel...Razzle Dazzle