Contre-plongeons
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When one squeezes an orange, orange juice comes out, because that’s what’s inside. So when you are squeezed? One wonders what comes out from inside of you!
So, be patient: Everything has its own time!
You can't make an orange mature right away because just you are hungry or succumb to greed, like a bottomless pit which exhausts the person in an endless effort to satisfy the need without ever reaching satisfaction.
So, like this Sweet Butterfly, just sucking up enough juice for reinvigorating within, to achieve his own goal!
And then flyway and start all over again.
This capture of this very beautiful butterfly was taken with my 40mm macro lens at The Butterfly House of Birmingham Botanical Gardens. On my recent visit to the Birmingham Botanical Gardens.
Where one can see Butterflies feeding on sugar-water feeders and saucers of fermenting fruit such as bananas, apples, and oranges.
And I found this one on a small piece of an orange, which looks like him sucking up on the orange juice...
Mind you, I did feel that I wanted to join in with him here?
Because that orange did really look very juicy!
Also was very glad that I could be able, to get a well close-up of this little beauty.
Also, it's amazing to learn about Butterflies and moths have four stages of life: egg, larva (the caterpillar stage), pupa (the chrysalis phase in a butterfly's development), and adult. It takes a Monarch butterfly just 28 to 32 days to complete its life cycle.
Many thanks for your cool comments and compliments from you here, my good flickr friends !!!
Parang Mountains, Romania
Lake (Tern) Şureanu or Iezerul Şureanu called the Bottomless Lake is considered one of the most beautiful glacial lakes in Romania. It is located at an altitude of 1840 m on the bottom quartile of the East Peak cirque Şureanu.
“I sent him out half an hour ago for worms and he's still not back!”, says Robin ; 0)))
Using a little humour to lift my mood. Writing a little poetry for catharsis.
Connections ... (between my poems and pictures, music and quotes) … sometimes they may appear tenuous and inexplicable, but within the beauty of my mind they are inextricably linked.
People … I am very sensitive. I feel things deeply. Things that others may easily to be able to dismiss, may bring me down. I feel no need to explain or apologise for something that just is. I am just as God made me, but all things have consequences ...
Friends … those people who embrace me as I am and always bring the sun to my door. Thank you! <3
“If you want to fly in the sky, you need to leave the earth. If you want to move forward, you need to let go the past that drags you down.”
- Amit Ray
Soundtrack : www.youtube.com/watch?v=XpIKqeVaghg
INJOY – SOL SEPPY
I waited all day for the rain
the clouds hung heavily in the dark grey sky
I clung dreamily to my romantic reverie
and as the rain fell I let out a wistful sigh
my patience was rewarded
I did not wait in vain
the pitter-patter; spitting; lashing
on the skylight window pane
I pushed the Velux blind right up
and viewed the strange and eerie light
watched the big fat tear-shaped droplets
give themselves up without a fight
this melancholy mood of mine
this big black dog of Hemingway
I fight it hard to no avail
the beast will have me anyway
so I relax and settle down
upon the antique inherited settle
pick at the broderie anglaise
that lifts and crinkles and tests my mettle
idly my fingers trace the carvings
created in another land
the story that my uncle told me
so that I might understand
now he is gone and I am here
sitting on green faded velvet
the wonky leg that broke when I
stood on it; hung Christmas lights and felt it
give suddenly beneath my feet
I landed awkwardly
twisted my ankle and thought I broke it
but nothing at all showed up on the x-ray
all these thoughts and feelings crowd me
surround me and increase my mood
I want to sleep; my mind needs calming
it runs at speed; perhaps some food
to comfort me; to nourish me
to fill this bottomless void inside
then perhaps I'll drift and slumber
escape reality; I need to hide
the rain is slowing; the wind is rising
the noise they make is ever-changing
I love the wind; I love the rain
I love the shadows and the shining
some say it is a gift of mine
given to me after my childhood drowning
but sometimes it feels more like a curse
I try to laugh; my head is pounding
how can a name written on a page
affect my way of thinking so
I feel the sadness without reason
the déjà vu …
ditto ...
the echo
L E T T I N G G O …
blood-letting
go
will I fade into insignificance
or into mellow yellow …
- AP - Copyright © remains with and is the intellectual property of the author
Copyright © protected image please do not reproduce without permission
white-breasted robin (Eopsaltria georgiana)
"Hmm, it's a bottomless pit! No amount of food is enough."
Subtle inspirations exquisite feelings,
Craving for beauty is a glorious magnet;
It gives bliss a moment of madness,
Splendor lures into secrets.
White rose - open tenderness
It is fragrant in a shady garden,
The dew covered her whiteness,
nourishing her beauty with affection.
Bright colors of floral melodies
Hymns are dedicated to her beauty;
A wonderful wonder of kind nature,
It shines gently in its purity.
The bright joy of the risen morning
He sings a song about happiness to her softly;
And in anticipation of a miracle
He sends butterflies, calling them to fly. The path to an infinity of wonderful searches,
Refined sanctity in a simple petal,
Humble pride, the wisdom of farewells,
Devotion to the air, the sun, the earth,
The breath of the wind hums in the petals,
The roots penetrate into the bowels of the stones
In search of a sip of bright happiness
And explanations of its essence....(a rose from my garden)
Compositionally Challenged Week 40: Lens Distortion
My attempt at the "Looking Close... on Friday" theme "In a bottle".
Shot with an Agfa "Ocellar 3.5 cm" (projection) lens on a Canon EOS R5.
May your hearts be filled with spring beauty, human warmth and bottomless, heavenly purity. May your souls open up to true, quiet happiness, incomparable to anything — Christ is Risen! May the unquenchable flame of the triumph of life burn brightly in your eyes, may the Lord protect you! Be happy, my dear friends!!!! Everything that you see in the photo, I cooked myself, I treat you too....!!!!
No messing about this time with fancy vouchers for fancy food in fancy restaurants. If food were football formations this would be a no nonsense 4-4-2 featuring two full backs sporting prison haircuts and a pair of centre halves the size of shire horses with keenly sharpened size fourteen boots. Behind them, a goalkeeper that bears an uncanny resemblance to a bulldozer with shovel-like hands to match. None of your tika taka interchangeable diamonds in the midfield - just a pair of ferocious terriers flying into tackles - that sort of thing. On the wings, a couple of turbo charged whippets with blinkers on and an over reliance on either the left or right peg, depending upon which side of the pitch they’re stationed. Up front, a hefty lump with a prodigious leap, several missing teeth and a forehead shaped like an industrial steam iron. Just behind him, the only one who can actually play football, a Will O’ the Wisp waif whose job it is to dance through the opposition and give the ball to the big lad.
Yes, today we weren’t going anywhere near the upmarket open wallet surgery establishments designed to empty the pockets of wandering tourists in Mousehole or elsewhere. The Morrison’s cafe in Long Rock, a mile east of Penzance awaited our pleasure with its cordon bleu fish and chips covered in a healthy splat of tartare sauce, accompanied by a pot of tea - free refills on hot drinks if you didn’t know. Who needs filet mignon covered in pomegranate seeds and a glass of the ‘72 Chablis when you can have a full size plate of proper grub that’s been prepared by the good fryers of Morrison’s kitchen? Meerkat discount, that’s twenty-five percent off by the way. Two plates of decent nosh and a bottomless pot of tea for twelve quid. Last week we could barely get one starter for twelve quid when we finally used that voucher over at Gurnard’s Head. There’s no denying the quality of the food we had, but fine dining is for people with overflowing bank accounts and cultured palates.
And do you know what? The fish fryer at our chosen establishment does a fine job. Even Ali’s eighty-seven year old mother gushes with praise about the Morrison’s cafe at Long Rock, and she’s notoriously hard to please when it comes to eating out. In those fancy places we’re always on edge, convinced we’re being frowned upon by the waiting staff and our fellow diners, even though it’s probably just our imagination. Here, if you thank the team and tell them how much you enjoyed the fish, it really does seem to make them happy. Our standard tactic, made all the easier by our frankly slovenly attitude to mornings, is to arrive after two thirty, long after the lunchtime rush has been cleared from the tables and settle in for an hour or so, enjoying the peace. This works all the better in the summer months when you’re not in an enormous hurry to get to where you’re bound for. Sunset after nine - there’s really no need to rush.
And where weren’t we rushing to this afternoon you ask? Today we were going “down west” as we call it here, to the wilds of Penwith. A mini Dartmoor-on-Sea with ponies grazing among swathes of bracken, heather and gorse. Only once before had we parked at the old Carn Galver tin mine, and I’d been planning to go back ever since. On that afternoon we traced the natural coastal fortress of Bosigran Head, before following the footpath towards Porthmeor Cove and then back again via the quiet coast road, meeting small groups of ponies as we went. What we hadn’t done that day was to head inland and up the slopes towards the rocky tors of Carn Galver itself. From here, across a field of purple heather that glowed in soft summer sunlight, a series of headlands that ended with Pendeen Lighthouse disappeared into a dreamy blown out haze. And from that moment the deal was done. I’d come here to photograph Bosigran Head at sunset, but instead I’d be yomping up here again later with the camera bag. Ali declared she’d done enough yomping today and would watch the sunset from the van, so I returned alone. I had the place completely to myself. Well, apart from the steady chomping and the occasional whinny from our equine friends as they stomped about the bracken enjoying their own version of fine dining.
After all was done, another gastronomic delight awaited me in the van. Eggy bread and a can of Brewdog Session IPA from the fridge. A very happy ending to this series of tales on the subject of dining out. It doesn’t get more comforting than eggy bread dipped in the contents of a sachet of brown sauce - which was liberated from Morrison’s at lunchtime of course. A fine way to end a day of food and cultural enrichment at the edge of the world in West Cornwall.
The Cunningham car of the early 1950s was the product of revered sportsman Briggs Cunningham’s determination to win the 24-hour race at Le Mans with an American-built automobile. Cunningham had attempted the feat with production-based Cadillacs, but finding them not sufficient to the task, endeavored to build his own car, backed by his not-inconsiderable fortune and bottomless enthusiasm. His team developed a strong tubular chassis with independent coil-sprung front suspension and tuned Chrysler Hemi V8 power, wrapped in slippery bodywork. It won at Road America and Watkins Glen in 1951.
According to Richard Harman’s authoritative book, Cunningham: The Passion, The Cars, The Legacy, C-3 number 5442, the second-from-last coupe built, was based upon the renumbered, unused chassis originally designated 5213. It was completed in the spring of 1953, likely in metallic gray with gray interior trim, 20-gallon fuel tank and engine number 52810226, still installed today, carrying four Zenith single-barrel carburetors. It was originally delivered in the spring of 1954 to R.L. Parish of New York City. Subsequently, it moved west, and in the early 1960s was repaired following an accident while being driven by a lady in Northern California.
Because of their bespoke nature and wonderful heritage, every Cunningham C-3 is a significant automobile. Few, however, stand as prominently as this one, bearing an exceptional, cost-no-object restoration, in spectacular colors, and with an extremely authentic presentation that has won awards across the country. It is truly one of the very finest of its kind and a proven victor — something that Briggs Cunningham, the passionate competitor, would certainly appreciate. There is likely no finer example available.
Cunningham became a reluctant manufacturer of 27 street cars, a homologation requirement for Le Mans. The resultant C-3, also known as the Continental, was originally intended as a dual-purpose sports car that could be driven to the track, raced, then driven home. But by the time the car became a reality, it had morphed into an ultra-luxury 2-seater.
20 coupes, five cabriolets were bodied by Vignale in Italy, based on a svelte Giovanni Michelotti design.
Retailing for between $10,000 and $15,000, the C-3 was the most expensive American car at the time, selling for roughly three times the price of a $3,500 Cadillac Coupe Deville. Speaking of which, the first four C-3s, s/n 5206 through 5209, were equipped with 3-speed Cadillac manual gearboxes. The balance of production, including s/n 5442 featured here, had rather un-sporty Chrysler Fluid Torque Drive semi-automatic gearbox.
This car sold for $945,500, including buyer’s premium, at Broad Arrow Auctions’ sale in Gloversville, NY, October 15, 2022.
The Roaches, a prominent rocky ridge situated above the Staffordshire town of Leek and Tittesworth Reservoir in the Peak District of England. The ridge has some spectacular rock formations and rises steeply to 505 m.
We reached the trig point and descended to this point, just before Doxey Pool. The eerie Doxey Pool, rumoured to be the home of a seductive mermaid by the name of Jenny Greenteeth who entices passers by into the dark deathly waters that are rumoured to be bottomless.
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100x walks #33
This characterful sheep greeted me at the halfway point of a long thirteen miler a couple of weeks ago. I rather liked her jumper that she said she'd knitted herself. She resides at Ouseburn Farm that 'is a charity based in the heart of Newcastle Upon Tyne' and 'a city farm providing a great day out for all the family as well as offering a training and education centre for vulnerable adults and school children'.
Nothing better than starting a day at the cozy, local cafe where life seems slowed down and coffee comes in a bottomless cup. . .
Китаївські ставки.
Каскад з 4 ставків на Китаївському струмку в місцевості Китаїв. На березі ставків розташована Китаївська Пустинь.
I finally managed to catch the baby blackbird after many hours of patient sitting on the lounge-room floor by the window. These two came perfectly within close range for me.
The adult blackbird was clearly thinking "my goodness - it is a bottomless pit down there!"
White Sands, Yellowstone, Zion... it's been a deadly year in the parks. People driven by their passions, literally walking themselves into very bad situations. Point in case: Willfully stepping on to a dangerously precarious ledge in the middle of the night to setup a shot and then holding breath through painfully long exposures trying to listen for any sounds of the chunks of crumbling soil hit the seemingly bottomless dark pit. why
Uncle Bottomless sat slumped by the barrel, gut spilling out like an overripe pumpkin, fist welded to his dented cup. The bastard wasn’t drinking to taste — he was drinking to erase. His beard stank of stale ale, piss, and forgotten meals, while his eyes floated somewhere between rage and rot. The villagers called him a saint of the cellar, but it was mockery — he’d drained more kegs than prayers were ever spoken in the chapel. He belched like a dying ox, wiped his greasy paw on his robe, and muttered curses at ghosts nobody else could see.
Image originally generated with DALL-E, then enhanced through upscaling in Leonardo AI and finally refined with Topaz Gigapixel AI.
Floating high, floating low
Reflections shine and they flow
Between the shores, over the lake
Chasing waves that race and break
Over the blueness, the bottomless deep
Where reflections rest, but never sleep
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
Their still waters- still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains- near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the grey woods,- by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp-
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy-
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.
-- Edgar Allan Poe. Dream-land (excerpt)
Tonight's moon, shrouded.
Black Lake is in northern Michigan. Last summer, some friends and I spent a night there.
We were up early the next morning to catch the ferry to Mackinaw Island, and saw this.
It reminded me of a story I heard about Eskimos on the fjords in Greenland who are prone to "kayak sickness".
The fjords are known for spells of completely quiet weather, no wind or breeze, completely still and the water becomes like glass. The sun is low in the sky during these spells and sends a glare into the eskimos eyes as they sit quietly in their kayaks to not scare away the seals.
They become almost hypnotized, the landscape becomes unreal, and the eskimos become almost paralyzed, feeling like they are floating and sinking into a bottomless void. They are so stricken they cannot even cry out.
They just fall and fall and fall.....
Some are so prone to it that they cannot hunt and bring starvation to their families.
While this photo isn't really that, it reminded me of it.
The big grey.
The nothing.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
“Love is a Bottomless-Pit, it is a Carnivore, a Harpy, that devours every thing”
Original quote was by John Arbuthnot, hope I didn't break any laws by changing it slightly?;~) Basically Substituted Law for Love.
hehe gotta love lawyers too...
Jesse was worried that I almost drove my car into a bottomless hole. I didn't think I came anywhere near it, nor was it bottomless, so I asked Jesse to get into the hole to prove his point.
In Jesse's mind, an average car trip has me almost killing us several times. I say almost, because that's what he says "You almost killed us". Personally I think that little admonishment should be reserved for when we're skidding around in the overturned car.
Believe it or not this was captured inside a telephone box that resembled something like the Tardis from the old TV show "Dr. Who".
Inside the box is like being in an elevator shaft that gives quite an uneasy feeling because it looks and feels as though you could fall for miles into this bottomless pit. Anyway whilst I was in the box all the lights went out and because these effects work from light and glass I could see something quite frightening above me. I remember yelling a brief obscenity because I got such a fright . Turned out it was my own reflection that scared me, when I stepped out of the phone box I was greeted by a line of tourists with very amused faces.
Part of my seemingly bottomless Mickey Mouse bag with all the "essentials":- tissues, bandaids, pain-killers, tweezers, cough lollies, tiny screwdriver, lip balm, hair ties, pen, hand sanitiser, ...
It's easy to transfer between bags :)
Macro Mondays: EDC (Everyday Carry)