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May 16, 2025 - Burrowing Owl blinking at the Port of Los Angeles in San Pedro, CA. This Burrowing Owl is a Rare Bird in the area that has lived here around the Warehouse for about six months.
The gateshead millenium bridge,or the 'blinking eye' as it is affectionately known,is an award winning bridge and also acclaimed worldwide.
It was lifted into place by the 'asian hercules' one of the worlds largest floating cranes,in november 2000.
HDR IMAGE
EXIF F22.....1/15+1/4+1+4 SECONDS.....ISO100.....10MM
McClard's Bar-B-Q, 505 Albert Pike Road, Hot Springs, Arkansas. n the twenties, Alex and Gladys McClard owned Westside Tourist Court, just a few blocks west from the current location of McClard's Bar-B-Q Restaurant at 505 Albert Pike, Hot Springs National Park, Arkansas.
When a down-and-out traveler could not come up the the $10 he owed for his two-month stay, he asked the couple to accept instead a recipe for "the world's greatest bar-b-que sauce". Since something was better than nothing, the couple accepted the recipe. To their great surprise and delight, they tasted the truth in the traveler's claim.
Carhops hung trays of ribs and sandwiches on automobile doors.In 1928, the Westside Tourist Court became Westside Bar-B-Q with goat as its star menu attraction! In 1942, McClard's moved into the current location - a white-washed stucco building.
For many years, drive-in service was provided for a horn toot or blinking lights. Carhops hung trays of ribs and sandwiches on automobile doors while the driver dialed in the radio to catch the tunes from the neon jukebox inside. Today goat has disappeared from the menu, and the carhops from the curbside.
In the kitchen is still the McClard family: 2nd, 3rd, and 4th generations of McClards continue the traditions set by Alex and Gladys. In the kitchen, though, is still the McClard family: 2nd, 3rd, and 4th generations of McClards continue the traditions set by Alex and Gladys. Each week they serve 7,000 pounds of mouth-watering hickory-smoked beef, pork, and ribs. Alongside go 250 gallons of spicy bar-b-que beans, 250 gallons of cole slaw, 3,000 hand rolled hot tamales and 3,000 pounds of fresh-cut potatoes french-fried to perfection.
And over the crusty-on-the-outside, fall-away-tender-pink-inside smoky bar-b-que, in handy bottles on the side.... is the sauce. The famous sauce that started it all. The priceless sauce whose $10 recipe now sits locked away in a safe deposit box in downtown Hot Springs.
on bad stars when is bad seeing or bad optics :) . After image of comet from Australia observatory with CELESTRON 11" F/2.2 ROWE-ACKERMANN SCHMIDT ASTROGRAPH (RASA) OPTICAL TUBE I am working on star reduction in PS , is possible to clean the noise in the same time ;). This blinking AVI Video is made from 100 % resolution crop .
The yellow-billed babbler or white-headed babbler (Turdoides affinis) is a member of the Leiothrichidae family endemic to southern India and Sri Lanka. The yellow-billed babbler is a common resident breeding bird in Sri Lanka and southern India. Its habitat is scrub, cultivation and garden land. This species, like most babblers, is not migratory, and has short rounded wings and a weak flight and is usually seen calling and foraging in groups. It is often mistaken for the jungle babbler, whose range overlaps in parts of southern India, although it has a distinctive call and tends to be found in more vegetated habitats. Its name is also confused with T. leucocephala, which is also known as white-headed babbler.
These birds have grey brown upperparts, grey throat and breast with some mottling, and a pale buff belly. The head and nape are grey. The Sri Lankan form T. a. taprobanus is drab pale grey. Nominate race of southern India has whitish crown and nape with a darker mantle. The rump is paler and the tail has a broad dark tip. Birds in the extreme south of India are very similar to the Sri Lankan subspecies with the colour of the crown and back being more grey. The eye is bluish white. The Indian form is more heavily streaked on the throat and breast. The Sri Lankan subspecies resembles the jungle babbler, Turdoides striatus, although that species does not occur on the island.
Seven distinctive vocalizations have been noted in this species and this species has a higher pitched call than the jungle babbler. The jungle babbler has calls that have a harsher and nasal quality.
The taxonomy of this species was confused in the past and confounded with the sympatric jungle babbler and the orange-billed babbler of Sri Lanka.
This species is patchily distributed in southern India and Sri Lanka. The nominate subspecies is found in Andhra Pradesh, south of the Godavari river and Karnataka south of Belgaum into Tamil Nadu. It prefers lower altitudes and drier habitats than the jungle babbler but sometimes is found alongside it. The Sri Lankan subspecies is found in the lowlands and hills up to about 1500m avoiding heavy forest.
A FRED, SBU, or EOT (depending on who you ask) flashes away at the end of a parked crude oil train at Depew.
Note: Animated (blinking 'cursor' at end of Text), but it does not appear to display animated here at Flickr, at this time... It can be viewed 'animated' at Google Photos, here (go into INFO for Commentary on all of my Header images, I will include the commentary for this image, below):
goo.gl/photos/pfkt1SkY1JQi5zao9
Wanting to improve the 'fallout-ness' of a previous HEADER image I created for The Blog, I hunted for a 'more Pip-Boyâ„¢-styled font' that was also free, and wanted to add an animation of a 'cursor' in the composition to complete the effect...
I eventually found a Monotype font that was really close to the Pip-Boy font and was 100% Free (Monofontia? No... Monotypeia? dang it, the name escapes me at this time, sorry).
The 'lines' I originally was creating with The GIMP (now just called GIMP?), utilizing the easy-peasy "Erase Every Other Row" function - but I did some deeper searching into my trusty PaintShopPro and found a similar effect (woot, since I prefer to use PSPro, if I can)! For those interested, it is the BLINDS effect - which should be useful in any 'computer-style'/terminal/display font effect.
The 'blinking cursor' was simply two images, one with "the square" (ALT+219, iirc) and one without "the square". I then imported the two images into Bandisoft's Honeycam, their GIF and WEBM/WEBP creation tool (Editor). Exporting as a GIF at 100% Quality setting, it turned out pretty close to what I was trying to do!
Putting up at The Blog now, I hope you enjoyed this composition and little bit of behind-the-scenes BackStory..... <3
(Note: I am not affiliated with, nor do I receive monetary compensation from Corel or Bandisoft, for mentioning their products here [..hmm.. I want to mention that Bandisoft gave me a 2nd copy of Bandicam a while ago (I purchased the first one), for doing some Quality Assurance testing with them in the past - but I have never been 'paid with Real Money' by either company..]. I am merely an enthusiastic user of their products and want to share which/what I utilize, to help others produce the same effects, if they so desire.)
Captured and Edited by Troy from The Game Tips And More Blog
Game Material by Bethesda Game Studios
When will my bus come??!! Spotted this lady standing waiting for a bus this morning and liked how the bus stop picked up, slightly, the passing car reflections. Another sunny day in Prestwick!!
Our Daily Challenge - WAITING .....
Leaves cut from paper printed with eyes open on the front and eyes closed on the back look like they are blinking as they spin around in the air.
If the cylinder is likened to a tree trunk, the leaves blown upward appear to form a tree. For an instant, invisible branches grow out in the air; it looks like the annual cycle of a deciduous tree depicted in just a few seconds. Blinking Leaves is a work by Yasuhiro Suzuki (JP).
credit: Katsuhiro Ichikawa
This unique accommodation experience provides a high quality accommodation experience. Walking distance to all Warrnambool's attractions and right next door to Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village. Your only neighbour is the blinking Lady Bay Lighthouse that still keeps the Warrnambool Harbour safe at night.
Created around the original State Heritage Listed 1859 Lighthouse and Warrnambool Garrison Fortifications.
By visiting our maritime village and interpretive centre, you will hear, see and experience for yourself the hardships of those who sailed the high seas. See the piceless Minton Loch Ard Peacock - Australia's most valuable shipwreck wreck artefact.
Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village has been awarded the 2009 Victorian Tourism Awards - Tourist Attraction, the 3rd year in a row!! With that our historic precinct is now a member of the Victorian Tourism Industry - Hall of Fame For Ongoing Excellence.
Lighthouse history – from www.flagstaffhill.com
Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village (www.flagstaffhill.com) is a maritime precinct overlooking the continually dangerous Lady Bay . It contains the still active lighthouses that have attempted to keep the Warrnambool harbour safe from the roaring southern oceans.
The growing trade through the opening of the western Victoria district created the need for coastal ports. Port Fairy and Portland had established in the early 1840’s and a steady trade began to flow. The settlers of the new town of Warrnambool were attracted by early reports of the potential of Lady Bay to become a trading port.
Trade began through a range of slowly improving piers and jetties. The dangers of the port some became more apparent and calls for improved safety through the installation of lights started and were finally listened to by the newly separate colony of Victoria .
The Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex was originally built in 1858-9 of basalt quarried on the Salt Water (Maribynong) River, Melbourne . The upper tower, chartroom, cottage and privy were originally located on Middle Island near the outlet of the Merri River , with a lower light located on a timber tower on the beach.
It soon became apparent that the middle island location was not satisfactory with the light obscured by heavy seas.
In 1871 the lights and all associated buildings, along with the privy, were moved to their current location on Flagstaff Hill as leading lights for the entry to the treacherous and shallow Warrnambool Harbour . The lower light was placed on a bluestone obelisk that had been erected there as a navigation marker in 1854.
A flagstaff had been erected on the hill as early as 1853 very soon after the settlement of the Warrnambool district.
Flagstaff Hill’s Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex is of historical, scientific (technological) and architectural significance to the State of Victoria by providing an excellent example of the kind of navigational aids constructed in the early years of regional expansion in Victoria. The lights remain today a maritime navigation aid.
The Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex historical significance is further enhanced for its intact battery and guns, a strong reminder of Victoria 's wealth and determination to protect itself from the perceived threat of invasion in the 1880s.
Flagstaff Hill was also the centre for the Warrnambool Garrison, built in response to the perceived threat of foreign forces looking to expand their own empires by taking this remote part of the mighty British Empire .
The remaining guns are scientifically (technologically) significant as physical reminders of a time when these weapons represented advanced design in artillery. A recent study has found two of the guns to be of "world significance" and further work is being undertaken to enhance the way we tell our guests of this significance.
The Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex is of architectural significance as a fine example of Public Works Department architecture of the 1850s and 1880s. The modest but dignified and sturdy lighthouse structures are indicative of the importance of lighthouses to the communities that relied upon them to facilitate safe passage for shipping, at a time when such transport was crucial to relatively isolated towns like Warrnambool.
The battery of two 80 pounder rifled, muzzle loading guns was added in 1887 as part of a general upgrade to the defences of Victoria which saw Port Phillip Bay transformed into a fortress and the nearby ports of Belfast (Port Fairy) and Portland receive a similar armament to Warrnambool. The fortifications and guns were in a derelict condition until they were restored after the complex was integrated into the Flagstaff Hill Maritime Museum in the 1970s.
The Warrnambool Garrison guns are fired by re-enactment groups on major event days at Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village .
2009 marks the 150th year of these beautiful structures role in developing what is now the thriving City of Warrnambool . A range of activities and special events are planned across the year to mark this important milestone for our city.
The two lights are undergoing upgrades works in early 2009 to enhance their current role in marking the safe channel into what is now a recreational boating port.
Guests to Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village can explore the Victorian State Heritage Registered Lady Bay lighthouse complex daily. The upper lighthouse can be climbed and is open daily.
The lighthouses are also able to be viewed through the flagstaffhill.com webcam located overlooking Lady Bay .
Howl
BY ALLEN GINSBERG
For Carl Solomon
I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blur floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
II
What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
III
Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland
where you’re madder than I am
I’m with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I’m with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I’m with you in Rockland
where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries
I’m with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I’m with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I’m with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I’m with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I’m with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I’m with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss
I’m with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I’m with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I’m with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I’m with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I’m with you in Rockland
where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I’m with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep
I’m with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we’re free
I’m with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
San Francisco, 1955—1956
Neon lights line the streets at night; those blinking rainbows that promote any of a variety of banks, restaurants and secular holidays are found not in the sky, but on the sides of skyscrapers. Beneath them on the footpaths stand the sentry trees sporting their funny white bottoms. On occasion, they share the sidewalks with pedestrians, but not too often, thankfully.
My desultory stroll through the Kunming streets exhausted me physically, but left me spiritually refreshed. Walking through Hong Kong's hellish hallways and lanes is stressful and cognitively taxing; one saunters with purpose, trying diligently to get to the destination as fast as possible, other assiduous pedestrians be damned. Kunming, in contrast, is a joyful breeze. Kunming's lower density urban environment suits me well. It also reminds me of those other delightfully innocuous Asian cities of recent memory, Osan and Donghae. So, I find myself in a Korean restaurant ordering stone pot rice, a favorite staple of mine from my Korean adventure. It's fitting, I suppose, that Kunming should so remind me of Korea that I should continue my reverie by feasting on the - plausibly - local cuisine.
I recently watched a documentary on great bridges and it featured the Millennium Bridge in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Always nice when you learn more about places you visited!
I only found out later that this bridge is nicknamed Blinking Eye Bridge because of its shape and tilting method.
Okay, so I didn't do such a good job on this part. But I like to think of it as punk and deconstructionist. And yes, I realize that my hem isn't straight- I gotta find my rotary cutter in order to fix that. But I still like it.
This unique accommodation experience provides a high quality accommodation experience. Walking distance to all Warrnambool's attractions and right next door to Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village. Your only neighbour is the blinking Lady Bay Lighthouse that still keeps the Warrnambool Harbour safe at night.
Created around the original State Heritage Listed 1859 Lighthouse and Warrnambool Garrison Fortifications.
By visiting our maritime village and interpretive centre, you will hear, see and experience for yourself the hardships of those who sailed the high seas. See the piceless Minton Loch Ard Peacock - Australia's most valuable shipwreck wreck artefact.
Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village has been awarded the 2009 Victorian Tourism Awards - Tourist Attraction, the 3rd year in a row!! With that our historic precinct is now a member of the Victorian Tourism Industry - Hall of Fame For Ongoing Excellence.
Lighthouse history – from www.flagstaffhill.com
Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village (www.flagstaffhill.com) is a maritime precinct overlooking the continually dangerous Lady Bay . It contains the still active lighthouses that have attempted to keep the Warrnambool harbour safe from the roaring southern oceans.
The growing trade through the opening of the western Victoria district created the need for coastal ports. Port Fairy and Portland had established in the early 1840’s and a steady trade began to flow. The settlers of the new town of Warrnambool were attracted by early reports of the potential of Lady Bay to become a trading port.
Trade began through a range of slowly improving piers and jetties. The dangers of the port some became more apparent and calls for improved safety through the installation of lights started and were finally listened to by the newly separate colony of Victoria .
The Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex was originally built in 1858-9 of basalt quarried on the Salt Water (Maribynong) River, Melbourne . The upper tower, chartroom, cottage and privy were originally located on Middle Island near the outlet of the Merri River , with a lower light located on a timber tower on the beach.
It soon became apparent that the middle island location was not satisfactory with the light obscured by heavy seas.
In 1871 the lights and all associated buildings, along with the privy, were moved to their current location on Flagstaff Hill as leading lights for the entry to the treacherous and shallow Warrnambool Harbour . The lower light was placed on a bluestone obelisk that had been erected there as a navigation marker in 1854.
A flagstaff had been erected on the hill as early as 1853 very soon after the settlement of the Warrnambool district.
Flagstaff Hill’s Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex is of historical, scientific (technological) and architectural significance to the State of Victoria by providing an excellent example of the kind of navigational aids constructed in the early years of regional expansion in Victoria. The lights remain today a maritime navigation aid.
The Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex historical significance is further enhanced for its intact battery and guns, a strong reminder of Victoria 's wealth and determination to protect itself from the perceived threat of invasion in the 1880s.
Flagstaff Hill was also the centre for the Warrnambool Garrison, built in response to the perceived threat of foreign forces looking to expand their own empires by taking this remote part of the mighty British Empire .
The remaining guns are scientifically (technologically) significant as physical reminders of a time when these weapons represented advanced design in artillery. A recent study has found two of the guns to be of "world significance" and further work is being undertaken to enhance the way we tell our guests of this significance.
The Lady Bay Lighthouse Complex is of architectural significance as a fine example of Public Works Department architecture of the 1850s and 1880s. The modest but dignified and sturdy lighthouse structures are indicative of the importance of lighthouses to the communities that relied upon them to facilitate safe passage for shipping, at a time when such transport was crucial to relatively isolated towns like Warrnambool.
The battery of two 80 pounder rifled, muzzle loading guns was added in 1887 as part of a general upgrade to the defences of Victoria which saw Port Phillip Bay transformed into a fortress and the nearby ports of Belfast (Port Fairy) and Portland receive a similar armament to Warrnambool. The fortifications and guns were in a derelict condition until they were restored after the complex was integrated into the Flagstaff Hill Maritime Museum in the 1970s.
The Warrnambool Garrison guns are fired by re-enactment groups on major event days at Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village .
2009 marks the 150th year of these beautiful structures role in developing what is now the thriving City of Warrnambool . A range of activities and special events are planned across the year to mark this important milestone for our city.
The two lights are undergoing upgrades works in early 2009 to enhance their current role in marking the safe channel into what is now a recreational boating port.
Guests to Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village can explore the Victorian State Heritage Registered Lady Bay lighthouse complex daily. The upper lighthouse can be climbed and is open daily.
The lighthouses are also able to be viewed through the flagstaffhill.com webcam located overlooking Lady Bay .
Here is the useless object doing what it's supposed to do. Sorry for the crappy video.
Each conductive fabric pad is stitched to a different pin on the Lilypad. When each pad is touched by the conductive bead, the LEDs blink in a specific pattern. Ben Zaitlen did the programming.
We were inspired by Hannah Perner-Wilson's tilt sensing bracelet.
I am super excited that this worked and can't wait to make something more useful/artistic!
Two weeks in NOLA for the mardi gras 2017
Founded in 1996, Le Krewe d'Etat features 21 floats, including a special signature High Priest Float. Its floats adhere to a traditional style of design that impart Le Krewe d'Etat's satirical theme, which has been voted 'Best of Carnival' by critics. The Captain and officers ride on horseback throughout the parade.
In the tradition of Carnival, secrecy is very important to Le Krewe d'Etat. The identity of the ruler - the Dictator - is never revealed to the public, and the theme is secret until parade day.
The krewe's signature throw is the blinking logo skull bead. Le Krewe d'Etat was the first krewe to throw a blinking bead. They also publish the D'Etat Gazette, a bulletin with pictures and descriptions of the floats that is available only at the parade. Members of the krewe dressed as walking skeletons hand out the papers and wooden doubloons at the parades.
This organization is formed by 415 male riders.
Fully functional blinking LED's on a 1/2 scale replica helmet of Sebastian Vettel from Singapore GP 2012. Hand built .....
Al porto di Torre del Greco. [?]
Canon EOS 300 - Canon EF 28-70mm f3.5-4.5 - Agfa RSX II (ISO 100) cross-processed
Scansione da negativo (Epson Perfection 3490)
Ive been looking for an old fan like this.
It should be sitting on the desk, in a hazy room, harshly lit by the late evening sun (or a blinking Neon sign, hanging outside the window).
The door has a big eyeball painted on the privacy glass. Underneath it says "Joe Mack Private Eye"
A worn, rumpled trencoat and well-creased fedora hang on a gray tree next to the door. Yellowed certificates in institutional frames and black and white photos of handshakes hang, pinned to the wall nearby.
A shlumpy figure sits with his feet up on the desk. An overfilled ashtray smolders amidst piles of papers, an uncorked bourbon bottle, a blue, 0.32 service revolver. To the side a small fan spins quietly next to an old black brick of a telephone.
A tall silhouette appears in door's window. It is tall like a stretching cat. A few raps and the door creaks opens ushering in a tottering mess of a dame. The schlump sits up instinctively grabbing and cinching his necktie too tight. Her heels are too tall, her hair is piled high, her dress is long and poured on like paint on a statue. In the light of the humming fluorescent light in the hall she is a pinup, but as she stumbles closer, leaning provocatively from the waist over the desk he could see the roughness on her edges - a few tendrils of hair hanging around her nose and temples.
The schlump leans forward precipitating an avalanche of papers. He say "Hello sweetheart, Mack P.I., What can a old lump do for a dame like you?" He pulls open the desk drawer and frees a small glass from the collections of rubber bands, bullets, brass knuckles, erasings, reciepts, bottle corks, photos, etc. He blows in it, wipes it with the end of his tie and slides it toward her with the bottle.
Joe clicked snapped the switch on a desk lamp. It's 25 Watt light, under a dusty green shade lit her face clearly. It was dotted with perspiration. Her dress had dark stains at her armpits chest and waist. She pulled at the low neck of her dress showing a runway down to her navel. "Joe", she says with exasperation dripping like her sweat. "This is what I need!" She grabs the small fan on his desk stretching its old cord to the limit and bathes in the stream of air. First on her face, the down her dress. She hiked up her dress and aimed it up her dress. Her stocking garter showed and the shlump averted his eyes upward momentarily to give her some privacy. "Careful sweetheart, those are metal blades and you could hurt you pretty self." He interrupted. She snapped her head sideways, looking at him with a contemptuous glare. "You know I know how to handle a piece, little man." The shlump's head retreated back. She slammed the fan down on the desk with a folded 10-spot and said "Thanks honey. I knew you could solve this one." She took the glass, poured out some hooch from his bottle, shot it back and put the glass upside down on the desk. She straitened her dress and smoothed the loose hair and as fast as she came in she left ahead of a slam of the door and rattle of glass. I guess dinner's going to be fancy Chinese takeout. Case closed.
Ive been looking for an old fan like this.
It should be sitting on the desk, in a hazy room, harshly lit by the late evening sun (or a blinking Neon sign, hanging outside the window).
The door has a big eyeball painted on the privacy glass. Underneath it says "Joe Mack Private Eye"
A worn, rumpled trencoat and well-creased fedora hang on a gray tree next to the door. Yellowed certificates in institutional frames and black and white photos of handshakes hang, pinned to the wall nearby.
A shlumpy figure sits with his feet up on the desk. An overfilled ashtray smolders amidst piles of papers, an uncorked bourbon bottle, a blue, 0.32 service revolver. To the side a small fan spins quietly next to an old black brick of a telephone.
A tall silhouette appears in door's window. It is tall like a stretching cat. A few raps and the door creaks opens ushering in a tottering mess of a dame. The schlump sits up instinctively grabbing and cinching his necktie too tight. Her heels are too tall, her hair is piled high, her dress is long and poured on like paint on a statue. In the light of the humming fluorescent light in the hall she is a pinup, but as she stumbles closer, leaning provocatively from the waist over the desk he could see the roughness on her edges - a few tendrils of hair hanging around her nose and temples.
The schlump leans forward precipitating an avalanche of papers. He say "Hello sweetheart, Mack P.I., What can a old lump do for a dame like you?" He pulls open the desk drawer and frees a small glass from the collections of rubber bands, bullets, brass knuckles, erasings, reciepts, bottle corks, photos, etc. He blows in it, wipes it with the end of his tie and slides it toward her with the bottle.
Joe clicked snapped the switch on a desk lamp. It's 25 Watt light, under a dusty green shade lit her face clearly. It was dotted with perspiration. Her dress had dark stains at her armpits chest and waist. She pulled at the low neck of her dress showing a runway down to her navel. "Joe", she says with exasperation dripping like her sweat. "This is what I need!" She grabs the small fan on his desk stretching its old cord to the limit and bathes in the stream of air. First on her face, the down her dress. She hiked up her dress and aimed it up her dress. Her stocking garter showed and the shlump averted his eyes upward momentarily to give her some privacy. "Careful sweetheart, those are metal blades and you could hurt you pretty self." He interrupted. She snapped her head sideways, looking at him with a contemptuous glare. "You know I know how to handle a piece, little man." The shlump's head retreated back. She slammed the fan down on the desk with a folded 10-spot and said "Thanks honey. I knew you could solve this one." She took the glass, poured out some hooch from his bottle, shot it back and put the glass upside down on the desk. She straitened her dress and smoothed the loose hair and as fast as she came in she left ahead of a slam of the door and rattle of glass. I guess dinner's going to be fancy Chinese takeout. Case closed.
The award-winning Gateshead Millennium Bridge connects Newcastle Quayside and Gateshead Quays arts quarter. The bridge's unusual tilting action, unique in the world, earned it the title the Blinking Eye Bridge and cemented its iconic status in the city.
La Sardina toy camera image on 35mm film - found and admired in New Town (St. Charles), Missouri, USA.
Ive been looking for an old fan like this.
It should be sitting on the desk, in a hazy room, harshly lit by the late evening sun (or a blinking Neon sign, hanging outside the window).
The door has a big eyeball painted on the privacy glass. Underneath it says "Joe Mack Private Eye"
A worn, rumpled trencoat and well-creased fedora hang on a gray tree next to the door. Yellowed certificates in institutional frames and black and white photos of handshakes hang, pinned to the wall nearby.
A shlumpy figure sits with his feet up on the desk. An overfilled ashtray smolders amidst piles of papers, an uncorked bourbon bottle, a blue, 0.32 service revolver. To the side a small fan spins quietly next to an old black brick of a telephone.
A tall silhouette appears in door's window. It is tall like a stretching cat. A few raps and the door creaks opens ushering in a tottering mess of a dame. The schlump sits up instinctively grabbing and cinching his necktie too tight. Her heels are too tall, her hair is piled high, her dress is long and poured on like paint on a statue. In the light of the humming fluorescent light in the hall she is a pinup, but as she stumbles closer, leaning provocatively from the waist over the desk he could see the roughness on her edges - a few tendrils of hair hanging around her nose and temples.
The schlump leans forward precipitating an avalanche of papers. He say "Hello sweetheart, Mack P.I., What can a old lump do for a dame like you?" He pulls open the desk drawer and frees a small glass from the collections of rubber bands, bullets, brass knuckles, erasings, reciepts, bottle corks, photos, etc. He blows in it, wipes it with the end of his tie and slides it toward her with the bottle.
Joe clicked snapped the switch on a desk lamp. It's 25 Watt light, under a dusty green shade lit her face clearly. It was dotted with perspiration. Her dress had dark stains at her armpits chest and waist. She pulled at the low neck of her dress showing a runway down to her navel. "Joe", she says with exasperation dripping like her sweat. "This is what I need!" She grabs the small fan on his desk stretching its old cord to the limit and bathes in the stream of air. First on her face, the down her dress. She hiked up her dress and aimed it up her dress. Her stocking garter showed and the shlump averted his eyes upward momentarily to give her some privacy. "Careful sweetheart, those are metal blades and you could hurt you pretty self." He interrupted. She snapped her head sideways, looking at him with a contemptuous glare. "You know I know how to handle a piece, little man." The shlump's head retreated back. She slammed the fan down on the desk with a folded 10-spot and said "Thanks honey. I knew you could solve this one." She took the glass, poured out some hooch from his bottle, shot it back and put the glass upside down on the desk. She straitened her dress and smoothed the loose hair and as fast as she came in she left ahead of a slam of the door and rattle of glass. I guess dinner's going to be fancy Chinese takeout. Case closed.