View allAll Photos Tagged certainty
...taken from the song "Ruby Baby" by Dion & The Belmonts.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=3u1doOc3njI
Good morning everyone. For Dragonfly Thursday I'm pleased to present a series on the Ruby Meadowhawk (Sympetrum rubicundulum). A new dragonfly for yours truly that I photographed while visiting in New England recently.
As for these photos, they're all of females. While difficult to distinguish from female White-faced and Cherry-faced Meadowhawks I was able to determine the species with a high degree of certainty based on the number of male Ruby Meadowhawks found/seen in the same areas.
As for male Ruby Meadowhawks, I'll be posting a series on them at a later date.
As always, don't forget to click on "view previous comments" if you don't see the additional photos in the comment section. Even better, scroll to them by clicking on the arrow thingy to the right of the above pic. And if you want to view any picture in the comment section large all you have to do is click on it where you'll also find the full text describing this species of dragonfly.
Thank you for stopping by...and I hope you're having a truly great week.
Lacey
ISO400, aperture f/11, exposure .008 seconds (1/100) focal length 300mm
When every certainty is shaken and every utterance falters, when every principle appears doubtful, then there is only one ultimate belief on which we can base our rudderless interior life: the belief that there is an absolute direction of growth, to which both our duty and our happiness demand that we align; and that life advances in that direction. (WTW, 31–32)
-Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
ИСААК ЛЕВИТАН, 1890-е - Туман над водой
☆📝
Location: The Vasnetsov Brothers Vyatka Art Museum, Vyatka, Russia.
Source: goskatalog.ru/portal/#/collections?id=578627
The picture ‘Fog over the Water’ belongs to the 1890s. Levitan managed to catch the moment when thick fumes are just beginning to cover the ground. One more moment and everything in nature will disappear. In this natural phenomenon, the artist saw for himself a difficult, but interesting task: to convey a damp, foggy atmosphere at nightfall, disappearing space, a slow fading of the color of the earth and the cold light of the moon. There is also a noticeable departure from realism and tendency to general forms. The artist conveyed the mood and state of mind. It is possible that the illness that tormented him, or gloomy thoughts were reflected in this canvas.
The landscape ‘Fog over the Water’ is deeply lyrical, even elegiac. The artist managed to subtly relay the nuances of the environment and the modulation of light in the atmosphere of evening nature. The color fades away while retaining its certainty. The restrained coloring of the landscape projects perfectly the mood of quiet sadness. It should be noted that the artist also used various techniques to achieve the desired effects. Microscopic examination showed that the soil in the painting is two-layer: the lower layer is red-brown, while the upper one is white, dense, completely overlapping with the lower one. In some places, you can see how the author tried to remove the already dried paint. Probably, the artist originally had another version of the same composition, where the half of the moon was to the left, and then a new moon appeared, but somewhat smaller.
Dear Noukka,
I don't know why I always find it so hard to start writing something for the people who inspire me most when there's a million feelings about their photos inside of me. But putting them into words is something I tend to avoid because it's just another thing I could easily put on my to do list, and I just caught myself smiling writing that because you're probably the first person to understand what I mean.
So what I did is I got myself a cup of coffee the other day, sat down in front of my computer and went back to one of the first pages on your photostream. Not all the way back, but to the beginning of your first 365. I started a slideshow, which I have never done before, and looked at all the photos you've uploaded in the past two and a half years. I thought I would just let it play, but the truth is after every other photo I paused it to read your description, because I suddenly found it so interesting to discover how you were back then, and why you took the photo the way it is. So all in all it took me four hours on two different days instead of maybe just half an hour, but it was probably the best spent four hours of my whole week.
I still remember the day I discovered your photos or rather a few days after. I don't know what day it was exactly and how I found you in the first place, but I remember the happiness I felt when you added me back. Because it's one of the most wonderful, and rarest, things when someone who inspires me, somehow, is drawn to my photos as well. And still I would never have thought that some day, I would get to meet you in person, for you were so far away at that point.
I usually have a concept in my head when I go out to take a photo for someone, something significant that I connect with their photos. But with you, there is just so much. I got to know so many different sides of you over the months that I can't express anymore what it is that always makes me come back to your photos. As simple as that might sound, I think it's just you. You as in the girl I can't put into words. I think I'll just leave it at that and not try and display why you've come to mean so much to me. I think you know and that's all that counts.
So in the middle of going through all those photos you took, I went into my forest and set up my camera to deal with all that I've seen and to explore it a little further. I didn't know what I was doing at all, nor did I know what I wanted to do. But although the final photo turned out to be quite simple and I still cannot explain what exactly there is to see in it, I can say with certainty that it is made up of hundreds of small parts of your soul and mind that spoke to me through your photos. I just wanted to try something different because I didn't know how to approach taking a photo for you that doesn't simply say “happy birthday!” (which was the first reason I ever made anything for you exactly two years ago) in the first place, and I hope in some way it does make sense to you.
I want you to know I will always be proud of you for everything you've done so far, and even though your 366 didn't turn out the way you probably thought it would in the beginning, I still loved it and I can't wait for the rest of the photos that are part of it to appear on your photostream.
I also hope you're going to have the most wonderful day, and that you're spending it with lovely people and with lots of positive thoughts on your mind. Happy birthday! :)
When I first met you in person in summer last year, I was in awe because you were actually that wonderful, talkative, pretty, imaginative girl I had pictured, and to be honest I was a little proud to be able to say I know you. And then you came visit me only three weeks ago and I think it changed things between us a lot. Before, you were the girl I knew from the internet that I had met once and that I was so inspired by. But suddenly you became a lot more. You became someone I could share ideas with, who helped me with what occupied me most, who made me come closer to taking that one photo I absolutely loved, who I could sit in the same room with in silence, who understood. You still are all of what you used to be for me, but there's this small part between us that wasn't as clear until now. That small part that came from nowhere and suddenly has had such a big impact. That small part that I will simply call a friendship, and a special one at that.
Thank you for just being there these past two years, and for staying yourself all that time. To be able to call someone who so many people look up to, and deservedly so, my friend, is something I will forever be grateful for.
With lots of love,
Rona
[She finished her 366.]
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click to activate the icon of slideshow: the small triangle inscribed in the small rectangle, at the top right, in the photostream;
or…. press L to enlarge;
clicca sulla piccola icona per attivare lo slideshow: sulla facciata principale del photostream, in alto a destra c'è un piccolo rettangolo (rappresenta il monitor) con dentro un piccolo triangolo nero;
oppure…. premi L per ingrandire l'immagine;
www.worldphoto.org/sony-world-photography-awards/winners-...
www.fotografidigitali.it/gallery/2726/opere-italiane-segn...
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My health company, every three months, for three days, sends me to cover a shortage of staff, in the Lipari hospital, (and so do my colleagues), in the little free time I have available, I dedicate myself to my photographic passion.
Lipari is the largest island of the Aeolian Islands (they are located north of Sicily, one hour by hydrofoil from Milazzo); Lipari, under the fascist dictatorship, was the seat of forced confinement for political opponents, it was considered "a Sicilian Alcatraz", among all the islands of confinement, Lipari was most likely the most liveable, both for its considerable size that favored the relations of the confined with the inhabitants, both because, to a greater extent than elsewhere, in Lipari, confined persons were allowed to live in private residences, together with their families or other companions. I found written: "Being on an island that belongs to another island means feeling doubly foreign, tied to the will of the gods and nature, where every certainty can be swept away by the waves of that sea that laps it in every intimate part, but it is a sensation that lasts for a few minutes, the Liparoti (the inhabitants of Lipari, ed) know it well (as all Sicilians know), the Greek concept of Xenia, hospitality, is inherent in them, a written rule, is a duty that provides sanctity and protection for the guest ".
Lipari has a long history as a place of detention. It is the island where the common criminals were initially confined, then with the law of November 6, 1926 (the twenty-year fascist period begins with the seizure of power by fascism and Mussolini, officially occurred on October 31, 1922), Lipari thus became the a place to isolate and confine opponents; the life of the confined began immediately after disembarkation, with lodging in the dormitories of the Castle, under the strict surveillance of the police and the fascist militia, every morning, the confined were subjected to the appeal and they received a daily pay of 10 lire; they could move freely in the town, without however exceeding the demarcation line that surrounded the inhabited center; walking was the main activity, the saddest and most melancholy ones pushed to the limit allowed, to see the ferries arrive from Milazzo, aware that the sea was guarded by motorboats armed with machine guns. A situation that will not prevent Nitti, Rosselli and Lussu from fleeing the island, on a moonless night, between 27 and 28 July 1929.
I made some photo-portraits of people I didn't know, I thank them very much for their sympathy and their availability; I tried to capture the essence of minimal photographic stories, collected walking along the streets of Lipari ... in search of fleeting moments ...I used a particular photographic technique for some photographs at the time of shooting, which in addition to capturing the surrounding space, also "inserted" a temporal dimension, with photos characterized by being moved because the exposure times were deliberately lengthened, they are confused -focused-imprecise-undecided ... the Anglo-Saxon term that encloses this photographic genre with a single word is "blur", these images were thus created during the shooting phase, and not as an effect created subsequently, in retrospect, in the post-production
La mia azienda sanitaria, ogni tre mesi, per tre giorni, mi manda a ricoprire una carenza di organico, nell’ospedale di Lipari, (e così anche i miei colleghi), nel poco tempo libero che mi resta a disposizione, mi dedico alla mia passione fotografica.
Lipari è l’isola più grande delle isole Eolie (si trovano a nord della Sicilia, ad un’ora di aliscafo da Milazzo); Lipari , sotto la dittatura fascista, fu sede di confino coatto per gli oppositori politici, essa era considerata “un’Alcatraz siciliana”, fra tutte le isole di confino, Lipari fu molto probabilmente quella più vivibile, sia per le sue notevoli dimensioni che favorivano i rapporti dei confinati con gli abitanti, sia perché, in misura maggiore che altrove, a Lipari veniva consentito ai confinati di abitare in residenze private, insieme ai propri familiari o ad altri compagni. Ho trovato scritto: “Trovarsi su un Isola che appartiene a un’altra Isola, vuol dire sentirsi doppiamente straniero, legato al volere degli dei e della natura, dove ogni certezza può essere spazzata via dalle onde di quel mare che la lambisce in ogni intima parte, ma è una sensazione che dura solo per qualche minuto, i Liparoti (gli abitanti di lipari, n.d.r.)lo sanno bene (come lo sanno tutti i siciliani), è connaturato in loro il concetto greco della Xenia, l'ospitalità, non è una norma scritta, è un atto dovuto che prevede sacralità e protezione per l’ospite”.
Lipari ha una lunga storia come luogo di detenzione. È l’isola dove all’inizio erano confinati i delinquenti comuni, poi con la legge del 6 novembre 1926 (il ventennio fascista inizia con la presa del potere del fascismo e di Mussolini, ufficialmente avvenuta il 31 ottobre 1922), Lipari divenne così il luogo dove isolare e confinare gli oppositori; la vita del confinato iniziava subito dopo lo sbarco, con l’alloggio nelle camerate del Castello, sotto la rigida sorveglianza della polizia e della milizia fascista, ogni mattina, i confinati erano sottoposti all’appello e alla consegna della "mazzetta", ossia la paga giornaliera di 10 lire; potevano circolare liberamente nel paese, senza però superare la linea di demarcazione che circondava il centro abitato; passeggiare era la principale attività, i più tristi e malinconici si spingevano fino al limite consentito per vedere arrivare i traghetti da Milazzo, consapevoli che il mare era sorvegliato da motoscafi armati di mitragliatrici. Situazione che non impedirà a Nitti, Rosselli e Lussu di fuggire dall’isola, in una notte senza luna, tra il 27 e il 28 luglio del 1929.
Ho realizzato dei foto-ritratti di persone che non conoscevo, le ringrazio veramente tanto per la loro simpatia e la loro disponibilità; ho cercato di cogliere al volo l’essenza di storie fotografiche minime, raccolte camminando per le strade di Lipari... alla ricerca di attimi fugaci s-fuggenti ...
Ho utilizzato per alcune fotografie una tecnica fotografica particolare al momento dello scatto, che oltre a catturare lo spazio circostante, ha "inserito" anche una dimensione temporale, con foto caratterizzate dall’essere mosse poiché volutamente sono stati allungati i tempi di esposizione, sono confuse-sfocate-imprecise-indecise...il termine anglosassone che racchiude con una sola parola questo genere fotografico è "blur", queste immagini sono state così realizzate in fase di scatto, e non come un effetto creato successivamente, a posteriori, in fase di post-produzione.
I was repelled by the smell of rotting flesh ... or so it seemed until I noticed the strange geometric red forms of Stinkhorn fungi. Although their strong rotting smell is bad, these fungi aren't bad for your landscape and can actually be beneficial. Stinkhorns break down organic matter which is especially helpful in Florida’s naturally sandy, nutrient-poor soils. Stinkhorns break down mulch to make nutrients available for plants.
Clathrus ruber is a species of fungus in the stinkhorn family, and the type species of the genus Clathrus. It is commonly known as the latticed stinkhorn, the basket stinkhorn, or the red cage, alluding to the striking fruit bodies that are shaped somewhat like a round or oval hollow sphere with interlaced or latticed branches. The fungus is saprobic, feeding off decaying woody plant material, and is often found alone or in groups in leaf litter on garden soil, grassy places, or on woodchip garden mulches. Although considered primarily a European species, C. ruber has been introduced to other areas, and now has a wide distribution that includes northern and southern Africa, Asia, Australia, and North and South America. The species was illustrated in the scientific literature during the 16th century, but was not officially described until 1729.
The fruit body initially appears like a whitish "egg" attached to the ground at the base by cords called rhizomorphs. The egg has a delicate, leathery outer membrane enclosing the compressed lattice that surrounds a layer of olive-green spore-bearing slime called the gleba, which contains high levels of calcium that help protect the fruit body during development. As the egg ruptures and the fruit body expands, the gleba is carried upward on the inner surfaces of the spongy lattice, and the egg membrane remains as a volva around the base of the structure. The fruit body can reach heights of up to 20 cm (7.9 in). The color of the fruit body, which can range from pink to orange to red, results primarily from the carotenoid pigments lycopene and beta-carotene. The gleba has a fetid odor, somewhat like rotting meat, which attracts flies and other insects to help disperse its spores. Although the edibility of the fungus is not known with certainty, its odor would deter most from consuming it. C. ruber was not regarded highly in tales in southern European folklore, which suggested that those who handled the mushroom risked contracting various ailments.
Stinkhorns are in the same order of fungi as puffballs and earthstars. They start out as white egg-like structures in mulch or other damp decomposing material. Most of the fungal structure is underground. When enough water is available, the egg-sac structure ruptures and the mature mushroom (the “stinkhorn”) emerges. The smell attracts ants and flies that carry Stinkhorn spores to other places.
Depending on the type of stinkhorn, this mushroom is stalk-like, globular, or latticed. Stinkhorns vary in color but are usually red to orange in Florida.
Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden, Miami FL
Two important members of the Senate Budget Committee, Chairman Mike Enzi (R-WY) (pictured center) and Senator Sheldon Whitehouse (D-RI) (pictured right), discussed their efforts to implement reforms to streamline the annual budget process. Can an improved budget process lead to less gridlock, more fiscal policy certainty, and, ultimately, economic growth and stability? How can budget process reforms set the stage for Congress to lead the country to a more secure fiscal and economic future? Moderated by John Harwood (pictured left), chief Washington correspondent, CNBC, and political writer for The New York Times.
Watch the video: youtu.be/TWXRHKf7NUY
Haven't posted my ass in a while lol Did this one for my niece...she loves donkeys !
My advice to her is...
Be yourself -- but be your best self. Dare to be different and to follow your own star. When you are faced with a decision, make that decision as wisely as possible -- then forget it. The moment of absolute certainty never arrives.
Diary, photo 04
New photo and more and more I wonder what the fuck I'm doing, what I'm looking for, where I really want to get it.
I feel lost and everything around me is dark, I just look for a glimpse of light that can show me a road, a certainty. But I find nothing.
Everything gets dark
Nuova foto e sempre più mi chiedo che cavolo sto facendo, cosa sto cercando, dove voglio arrivare veramente.
Mi sento perso e tutto attorno a me è buio, cerco anche solo uno spiraglio di luce che mi possa indicare una strada, una certezza. Ma non trovo nulla.
Tutto si fa scuro
Stokksness, Iceland, Nov. 2023
Not much luck with the weather that day. A few clouds and some mist. But great sunrise. Something certainty would not have worked with b&w (duh...).
What I really liked about Stokksness this time are the many patterns and textures on the sand. I just wish I'd had more time in the area. There was enough "material" for days of exploration.
They walk side by side through the falling snow, close enough that the world seems to blur around them. The cold fades beneath shared warmth, a quiet understanding held in every step, every unspoken thought. There’s comfort in this closeness, in the gentle certainty of moving forward together, knowing that whatever waits ahead feels softer, warmer, and more possible simply because they are not walking alone.
Cuenca (Spain).
No flash, no tripod, no treatment / Sin flash, sin trípode, sin tratamiento.
ENGLISH
The Hanging Houses are a set of civil buildings located in Cuenca (Spain). Although in the past it was frequent this architectonic element in the edge this of the old city, located in front of the sickle of the Huécar river, today only last three of these houses.
Of uncertain origin, certainty of its existence is had already in 15th century. Throughout its history they have passed through diverse remodelings, being the most recent made one during the decade of years 20 of 20th century.
They have been used as houses of particular use and City Hall, although at the moment they lodge restaurant and the Museum of Spanish Abstract Art of Cuenca.
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CASTELLANO
Las Casas Colgadas, también conocidas como "Casas Voladas", "Casas del Rey" y, erróneamente, "Casas Colgantes", es un conjunto de edificios civiles situados en Cuenca (España). Aunque en el pasado era frecuente este elemento arquitectónico en el borde este de la ciudad antigua, situado frente a la hoz del río Huécar, hoy sólo perduran tres de estas casas.
De origen incierto, se tiene constancia de su existencia ya en el siglo XV. A lo largo de su historia han pasado por diversas remodelaciones, siendo la más reciente la realizada durante la década de los años 20 del siglo XX.
Han sido utilizadas como viviendas de uso particular y Casa Consistorial, aunque actualmente alojan un mesón restaurante y el Museo de Arte Abstracto Español, de Cuenca.
When I saw this photo, an old poem suddenly popped up in my head. Many years ago I read book after book of poetry and one of my absolute favourites among all the great authors was, and still is, Edith Södergran.
Thanks to Google (how would I cope without it? ) I found a translated version of the poem, and here it is.
The land that is not
I long for the land that is not,
for all that is, I am weary of requesting.
The moon speaks to me in silvern runes
about the land that is not.
The land where all our wishes become wondrously fulfilled,
the land where all our fetters fall,
the land where we cool our bleeding forehead
in the dew of the moon.
My life was a burning illusion.
But one thing I have found and one thing I have really won –
the road to the land that is not.
In the land that is not
my beloved walks with a glittering crown.
Who is my beloved? The night is dark
and the stars quiver in reply.
Who is my beloved? What is his name?
The heavens arch higher and higher
and a human child is drowned in endless fogs
and knows no reply.
But a human child is nothing but certainty.
And it stretches its arms higher than all heavens.
And there comes a reply:
I am the one you love and always shall love.
//Edith Södergran
*Texture by jeloid*
Red Cloud Passing
178 seconds to live
The time it takes to lose control.
Once inverted
Demand your certainty
In this world of loss
Read More: www.jjfbbennett.com/2019/12/melbourne-to-darwin-november-...
One-off sponsorship: www.paypal.me/bennettJJFB
With the first of what will hopefully aspire to become quite a crowdy company, I would like to express my gratitude to the one who gently led me down her kind path of encouragement to the decision about starting up a self-portrait project called 52 weeks. For the assuring certainty of always being able to find and resort to a caring support, a skilled opinion to rely on, and for providing an unlimited source of inspiration; one that melts, yet cannot melt away. All through the weeks to come.
Thank you.
The day started rather late in Viana Do Castelo. We were in Portugal for almost a week now, having made long days with lots of walking. So we really needed a bit of rest. Our original plan was to head out early towards the coast, however I had troubles walking this morning. Not to mention we also needed more time to pack and clean up our appartment. As I had seen another location a few days earlier from the train, and Google Maps confirmed it, we decidedd to take it easy and move towards this spot first. This way we had a few hours more to take it easy and it was also on route to our afternoon location, givingus more certainty we'd be here in time.
After getting our first pictures of the day between Alvaraes and Senhora Das Neves, we walked the 2 miles towards Barroselas. Normally an easy task, but as we were down on energy, had walked a lot during the past days already, were fully packed and the temperature got to 30 degrees, it was a bit of a task. After having had a rather nice Francesinha lunch and shopping break for drinks, we awaited the 14:12 IR train in the shadows of Barroselas station. After getting it on photo, another photographer warned us that a delayed freight train was on its way as well. So we waited a bit more, clinging to the shadows as much as possible, until the train became visible in the distance. We quickly rushed to the planned spot and got the train on photo. The train in question was headed by Captrain/Takargo's 6006, working the 48880 from a papermill in Marinha das Ondas (Portugal) towards Spain.
When I turned a corner in the so-small-it-isn't-really-a-town "town" of Vliets, Kansas and saw this little building I was pretty happy. In my efforts to photograph the deteriorating history of small towns (and sometimes big towns), aside from abandoned theaters, one-room schoolhouses are the numero uno treasures. And I was convinced this was such a treasure--even though it certainly appeared to be an abandoned church. But there was a sign carved in limestone by the drive leading here that seemed to proclaim this "District 79, Vliets School 1892." That it was fashioned in a form more like a church made it all the more interesting. However, on later closer inspection of the sign, it seemed to be referencing a building that no longer exists that stood in front of this one. Oh well. Still, finding abandoned churches is pretty cool as well. :-)
I had never heard of Vliets before finding it on the map as I wandered back and forth on the back roads near US 36 in North Kansas. And no wonder. It consists of maybe five houses and a grain storage facility with no indication of there ever having been a "business district." The disappeared school, then, seems an oddity, as the aforementioned sign had a small line drawing of the old school and it appeared to be a much more substantial building than the small one-room structure one would have expected. It was two stories and at minimum had three rooms and an entryway. In any case, there was no information posted about this old church, and it was locked so all I can say with reasonable certainty is that it used to be a church.
Scientific Name: Bovista colorata
Common Name: Golden Puffball
Certainty: positive (notes)
Location: Southern Appalachians; Smokies; CabinCove
Date: 20060710
"Who holds their breath
When the candle blows?
Who will have the patience
And the certainty to know
That wolves will howl
And vultures gorge
On wine mulled from bodies
Fallen by the swords
Of long lost saints and ancient gods?"
I tied myself with wire
To let the horses roam free
Playing with the fire
Until the fire played with me
The stone was semi-precious
We were barely conscious
Two souls too smart to be
In the realm of certainty
Even on our wedding day
We set ourselves on fire
Oh God, do not deny her
It’s not if I believe in love
If love believes in me
Oh, believe in me
At the moment of surrender
I folded to my knees
I did not notice the passers-by
And they did not notice me
I’ve been in every black hole
At the altar of the dark star
My body’s now a begging bowl
That’s begging to get back, begging to get back
To my heart
To the rhythm of my soul
To the rhythm of my unconsciousness
To the rhythm that yearns
To be released from control
I was punching in the numbers at the ATM machine
I could see in the reflection
A face staring back at me
At the moment of surrender
Of vision over visibility
I did not notice the passers-by
And they did not notice me
I was speeding on the subway
Through the stations of the cross
Every eye looking every other way
Counting down ’til the train would stop
At the moment of surrender
Of vision of over visibility
I did not notice the passers-by
And they did not notice me
U2 | Moment Of Surrender
"happiness hit her like a train on a track" sings florence welch and this line makes me wonder - what kind of happiness does she mean? surely it could be any kind, but as I was sitting on the bench this morning, for the moment I felt as though she'd mean love ... and it's not like everything about the picture of a train hitting you fits this comparison. what comes afterwards is plumply said - death. I guess it's more about this ... this waiting for it to arrive, wondering when it will finally come, and suddenly it hits you and from that moment, everything changes. time, place, it takes you with it to somewhere.
this is what love feels like. or maybe it's just what I wish it would feel like.
I guess I’m just a helpless romantic. I keep wandering around the streets with a lonely mind and as soon as I meet you, it starts to paint all the moments we could have. How you met me at the museum and I asked you for change money for the lockers, and we got to talk and we wandered through the exhibition together and talked about art and you you gave me your e-mail as we departed. I sent you one, and you actually replied in time, and we met again over and over again. How I met you in a café and I thought you’d look interesting, so I just asked you how you were. How you smiled and explained to me that you’re not from here, you just moved here, and that you quite like it so far.
We’d meet again and we’d go to more museums together, more cafés, talk about art more and more about your past, and you’d put your hand on mine as we sat at the river and just watched the ships passing by, how I’d sleep at your home for one night and in the late night as we lay next to each other, you’d put your arm around me and kiss me. Next morning I’d get up early and get together all the things I found in your kitchen and make you a nice breakfast. We would watch movies together and afterwards talk about them, the forest would be there for walks, but basically we would go everywhere because everything would appear nicer because you’d be there with me. I’d be on your mind and you'd me in mine. and we both knew it wouldn’t end too soon because it seemed real. After a while, you’d tell me your secrets and I’d tell you mine and you’d understand, and you’d never wonder about how I were because you just knew, and so would I know how you felt. And we’d fight often, I’d hate your horrible eating habits, but it would be okay because spending time with you just felt so worth it that no eating habits, no favorite songs of yours that I’d hate, no wrinkle on your face or mole on your nose, would change anything about the feeling you’d give me.
I don’t know. I think I’m just longing to be with someone. But somehow I’m living with the immense certainty that this will never happen; that I’ll never get what I’m imagining. That life will play tricks on me and make things happen a completely different way, in a completely different moment.
It’s just like I’m imagining you to read this now and suddenly realize that you somehow like me. And that you’d send me a message and we’d meet and that we’d be happy together. But it won’t happen because I wrote it down now and it’d be too perfect if it did. And things never turn out to be “perfect”. That’s just an illusion I’m hoping for, an illusion I’m living in, and I wish I could stop.
But as I said; I guess I’m just helplessly romantic.
on another note; this is my first attempt on expansions ... I didn't think it would be that simple and somehow it's addicting ... I feel like there are going to be loads of expansion-photos following soon, aha.
on an entirely different note; happy october everyone!
(day forty-two)
“We have lived by the assumption that what was good for us would be good for the world. And this has been based on the even flimsier assumption that we could know with any certainty what was good even for us. We have fulfilled the danger of this by making our personal pride and greed the standard of our behavior toward the world - to the incalculable disadvantage of the world and every living thing in it. And now, perhaps very close to too late, our great error has become clear. It is not only our own creativity - our own capacity for life - that is stifled by our arrogant assumption; the creation itself is stifled.
We have been wrong. We must change our lives, so that it will be possible to live by the contrary assumption that what is good for the world will be good for us. And that requires that we make the effort to know the world and to learn what is good for it. We must learn to cooperate in its processes, and to yield to its limits. But even more important, we must learn to acknowledge that the creation is full of mystery; we will never entirely understand it. We must abandon arrogance and stand in awe. We must recover the sense of the majesty of creation, and the ability to be worshipful in its presence. For I do not doubt that it is only on the condition of humility and reverence before the world that our species will be able to remain in it. (pg. 20, "A Native Hill")”
― Wendell Berry, The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays
In February of 1942, the cover of Trains Magazine featured a very compelling photo of Rio Grande Southern 10-Wheeler #20, working hard as she helped a double-headed freight extra through a rocky cut on the Dallas Divide, not far from Ridgway, CO. The photo was made by William Moedinger and featured the train's Head Brakeman perched on the pilot of the 20, keeping a lookout for the rocks and other debris which were a frequent problem on that slide-prone section of the line. So, in August of 2021, when the restored RGS #20 made her first appearance on Colorado's Cumbres & Toltec Scenic Railroad, during a charter for none other than Trains Magazine, it was just about a certainty that we'd try to re-create that scene, even if it had to be a static shot, for obvious safety reasons.
The location picked for this shot was the famous Phantom Curve, at Milepost 312.3, which provided the canyon backdrop that we needed. The re-enactor provided by the Colorado State Railroad Museum to play the role of the Head Brakeman looked like he was fresh from Central Casting, and bearing a strong resemblance to the man in the iconic photo. About the only things I wish we could have added to this scene were some loose boulders to better simulate the rock-strewn RGS right-of-way, and of course, a lot more black smoke, as in the original scene, the 20 was clearly working hard.
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click to activate the icon of slideshow: the small triangle inscribed in the small rectangle, at the top right, in the photostream;
or…. press L to enlarge;
clicca sulla piccola icona per attivare lo slideshow: sulla facciata principale del photostream, in alto a destra c'è un piccolo rettangolo (rappresenta il monitor) con dentro un piccolo triangolo nero;
oppure…. premi L per ingrandire l'immagine;
www.worldphoto.org/sony-world-photography-awards/winners-...
www.fotografidigitali.it/gallery/2726/opere-italiane-segn...
……………………………………………………………………….
My health company, every three months, for three days, sends me to cover a shortage of staff, in the Lipari hospital, (and so do my colleagues), in the little free time I have available, I dedicate myself to my photographic passion.
Lipari is the largest island of the Aeolian Islands (they are located north of Sicily, one hour by hydrofoil from Milazzo); Lipari, under the fascist dictatorship, was the seat of forced confinement for political opponents, it was considered "a Sicilian Alcatraz", among all the islands of confinement, Lipari was most likely the most liveable, both for its considerable size that favored the relations of the confined with the inhabitants, both because, to a greater extent than elsewhere, in Lipari, confined persons were allowed to live in private residences, together with their families or other companions. I found written: "Being on an island that belongs to another island means feeling doubly foreign, tied to the will of the gods and nature, where every certainty can be swept away by the waves of that sea that laps it in every intimate part, but it is a sensation that lasts for a few minutes, the Liparoti (the inhabitants of Lipari, ed) know it well (as all Sicilians know), the Greek concept of Xenia, hospitality, is inherent in them, a written rule, is a duty that provides sanctity and protection for the guest ".
Lipari has a long history as a place of detention. It is the island where the common criminals were initially confined, then with the law of November 6, 1926 (the twenty-year fascist period begins with the seizure of power by fascism and Mussolini, officially occurred on October 31, 1922), Lipari thus became the a place to isolate and confine opponents; the life of the confined began immediately after disembarkation, with lodging in the dormitories of the Castle, under the strict surveillance of the police and the fascist militia, every morning, the confined were subjected to the appeal and they received a daily pay of 10 lire; they could move freely in the town, without however exceeding the demarcation line that surrounded the inhabited center; walking was the main activity, the saddest and most melancholy ones pushed to the limit allowed, to see the ferries arrive from Milazzo, aware that the sea was guarded by motorboats armed with machine guns. A situation that will not prevent Nitti, Rosselli and Lussu from fleeing the island, on a moonless night, between 27 and 28 July 1929.
I made some photo-portraits of people I didn't know, I thank them very much for their sympathy and their availability; I tried to capture the essence of minimal photographic stories, collected walking along the streets of Lipari ... in search of fleeting moments ...I used a particular photographic technique for some photographs at the time of shooting, which in addition to capturing the surrounding space, also "inserted" a temporal dimension, with photos characterized by being moved because the exposure times were deliberately lengthened, they are confused -focused-imprecise-undecided ... the Anglo-Saxon term that encloses this photographic genre with a single word is "blur", these images were thus created during the shooting phase, and not as an effect created subsequently, in retrospect, in the post-production
La mia azienda sanitaria, ogni tre mesi, per tre giorni, mi manda a ricoprire una carenza di organico, nell’ospedale di Lipari, (e così anche i miei colleghi), nel poco tempo libero che mi resta a disposizione, mi dedico alla mia passione fotografica.
Lipari è l’isola più grande delle isole Eolie (si trovano a nord della Sicilia, ad un’ora di aliscafo da Milazzo); Lipari , sotto la dittatura fascista, fu sede di confino coatto per gli oppositori politici, essa era considerata “un’Alcatraz siciliana”, fra tutte le isole di confino, Lipari fu molto probabilmente quella più vivibile, sia per le sue notevoli dimensioni che favorivano i rapporti dei confinati con gli abitanti, sia perché, in misura maggiore che altrove, a Lipari veniva consentito ai confinati di abitare in residenze private, insieme ai propri familiari o ad altri compagni. Ho trovato scritto: “Trovarsi su un Isola che appartiene a un’altra Isola, vuol dire sentirsi doppiamente straniero, legato al volere degli dei e della natura, dove ogni certezza può essere spazzata via dalle onde di quel mare che la lambisce in ogni intima parte, ma è una sensazione che dura solo per qualche minuto, i Liparoti (gli abitanti di lipari, n.d.r.)lo sanno bene (come lo sanno tutti i siciliani), è connaturato in loro il concetto greco della Xenia, l'ospitalità, non è una norma scritta, è un atto dovuto che prevede sacralità e protezione per l’ospite”.
Lipari ha una lunga storia come luogo di detenzione. È l’isola dove all’inizio erano confinati i delinquenti comuni, poi con la legge del 6 novembre 1926 (il ventennio fascista inizia con la presa del potere del fascismo e di Mussolini, ufficialmente avvenuta il 31 ottobre 1922), Lipari divenne così il luogo dove isolare e confinare gli oppositori; la vita del confinato iniziava subito dopo lo sbarco, con l’alloggio nelle camerate del Castello, sotto la rigida sorveglianza della polizia e della milizia fascista, ogni mattina, i confinati erano sottoposti all’appello e alla consegna della "mazzetta", ossia la paga giornaliera di 10 lire; potevano circolare liberamente nel paese, senza però superare la linea di demarcazione che circondava il centro abitato; passeggiare era la principale attività, i più tristi e malinconici si spingevano fino al limite consentito per vedere arrivare i traghetti da Milazzo, consapevoli che il mare era sorvegliato da motoscafi armati di mitragliatrici. Situazione che non impedirà a Nitti, Rosselli e Lussu di fuggire dall’isola, in una notte senza luna, tra il 27 e il 28 luglio del 1929.
Ho realizzato dei foto-ritratti di persone che non conoscevo, le ringrazio veramente tanto per la loro simpatia e la loro disponibilità; ho cercato di cogliere al volo l’essenza di storie fotografiche minime, raccolte camminando per le strade di Lipari... alla ricerca di attimi fugaci s-fuggenti ...
Ho utilizzato per alcune fotografie una tecnica fotografica particolare al momento dello scatto, che oltre a catturare lo spazio circostante, ha "inserito" anche una dimensione temporale, con foto caratterizzate dall’essere mosse poiché volutamente sono stati allungati i tempi di esposizione, sono confuse-sfocate-imprecise-indecise...il termine anglosassone che racchiude con una sola parola questo genere fotografico è "blur", queste immagini sono state così realizzate in fase di scatto, e non come un effetto creato successivamente, a posteriori, in fase di post-produzione.
Trust me will all levels of certainty: this is the face I make when I almost say something I shouldn't, or walk away from my job, or both. Today it was almost both...
Theme: Working Conditions
Year Seventeen Of My 365 Project
Curving steel forms rise from the darkness, framing a distant lighthouse that cuts through the night with unwavering intensity. The contrast between the heavy, industrial sculpture and the fragile beam of light beyond creates a quiet tension—strength versus guidance, shadow versus certainty. Long exposure smooths the sky and softens the surrounding glow, allowing the illuminated tower to stand as a solitary focal point amid the monumental structures that loom overhead.
"52 Weeks" "Week 7" 2020
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The theme this week "LOVE" may seem easy enough, because hopefully we all get to experience love in our lives. My children have my unconditional love, my parents had my unconditional love and I will argue those facts until I become dust in the universe.
The children and parental units were a given, so I did a bit more thinking about the subject and went to the meaty part of love. The one where we actually take it upon ourselves to do the selecting. This can be very tricky. I mean, what did I know, back when I was 19, wondering if there was 'the perfect person' out there for me? Well, little did I know that I, me, the one choosing, would have absolutely nothing to do with the decision. Oh, sure, I could have kept up a search, seen what else was on the table, made a list of pros and cons... but my ♥ made my decision for me. The conviction and certainty was beyond anything I could resist. I fell in "LOVE". I could neither escape nor deny this state of affair... so I didn't. And neither did he. So here we are, both getting wrinkly together, both having been adoptive parents to over a dozen cats (which were all loved and all but one of them missed) besides having joined to make two very handsome sons. Our journey continues and when it has breathed it's last breath will it end... or perhaps not?
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Week 7:52 Love (February 12th - 18th)
This is a shot of the Vlacherna Monastery of Panayia (aka Theotokos, Virgin Mary, Our Lady), located to the East of Chalikiopoulos’s lagoon, Corfu Island, Greece. The construction year is not known with certainty, yet the monastery was mentioned in documents as early as in 1685. The name originates from the homonym monastery in Constantinople. The monastery celebrates on July 2 (deposition of the Theotokos's Sacred Belt).
🇬🇷
Μονὴ Παναγίας Βλαχερνῶν ἀπὸ ΒΑ [ Ἔγχρωμη ]
Λήψη τῆς Ἱερᾶς Μονῆς τῆς Παναγίας Βλαχέραινας (ἄλλως Παναγίας τῶν Βλαχερνῶν) ἀνατολικὰ τῆς λιμνοθάλασσας Χαλικιόπουλου (νῆσος Κέρκυρα). Δὲν εἶναι μὲ βεβαιότητα γνωστὸ τὸ ἔτος κτίσεως, ὡστόσο ἀναφέρεται σὲ γραπτὲς πηγὲς ἤδη ἀπὸ τὸ 1685. Τὸ ὄνομα Βλαχέραινα ἢ Βλαχέρνα προέρχεται ἀπὸ τὴν ὁμώνυμη Μονὴ στὴν Κωνσταντινούπολη.
Ἡ Μονὴ ἑορτάζει στὶς 2 Ἰουλίου (Κατάθεσις τῆς Τιμίας Ἐσθῆτος τῆς Ὑπεραγίας Θεοτόκου)
This week sees me in a reflective mood about my cross-dressing and transgender feelings. I will admit do rather enjoy musing over my thoughts and emotions on being a cross-dressing male. I can say with certainty a huge part of me is thrilled that I am a male to female cross-dresser and. I do harbour some genuine transgender aspects within me. I have stated I live a male life and I like that life but I am also pleased I do cross-dress and become a woman. I acknowledge I cannot truly become a woman but I enjoy the somewhat delusional experience of feeling I am a female.
I like that I can spend time presenting as a man and as a woman. I genuinely believe I enjoy it more than if I were to transition full time and live as a woman. I am part transsexual but it is not dominant enough need to push me towards surgery and hormones and a complete change of life. I do love the knowledge I can transform myself on occasion into, hopefully, looking and behaving, like the female gender.
The picture I posted yesterday included my thoughts on how some days when you cross-dress your look does not always come together. I’ve found my most recent cross-dressing sessions have worked out a lot better than many in my past. The pictures I posted this week date back to early 2019. I last cross-dressed in March 2020. I feel all the pictures from March 2020 look a lot better than those from a year earlier. This inevitably got me wondering why this was.
I realised there were a few contributing elements that brought about this change. The biggest element was the change in my own attitude and thinking in regard to my female self. For some reason I began to feel more comfortable with my female side and also more excited about that comfort and how it impacted on me. I have always had a degree of angst and fear at the awareness of just how much I loved and adored becoming woman. The emotional intensity of the feelings I experienced while cross-dressed did frighten me. I was worried about how I found it a bit difficult to go back to being a man as that initial switch was definitely upsetting. I always felt I wanted to remain the woman forever. At some point in the process of removing my female clothing, wig and make-up I do ease back into being man without too much emotional discomfort. Soon after returning to being a man the female experience fills me with euphoria and happiness and I am no longer upset by being a man again. The joy of the memory of what I had just done became a positive side effect of my cross-dressing.
My whole thinking and behaviour does shift a degree when I dress as a woman, I do have some kind of subconscious gender switch occur in my mind and I embrace it. In the past I was frightened of crossing that emotional line and held back. I think on reflection this contributed to some of my efforts to look female not working out too well. These days I enthusiastically let my mind and I suppose my fantasies that I am a woman have free rein, I embrace them completely and I feel this improves my female presentation. In short I’m thinking I’m going to a lot of effort to try and look female so I have decided to be that female when I transform myself. It definitely works and has heightened my enjoyment of my time as a woman.
I’m do believe the mental attitude and approach is as important as the physical approach involved using body shaving, eyebrow shaping, the make-up, wigs, shoes and clothing. It’s a winning combination in my book. I would encourage those cross-dressers that desire to look female to adopt that approach.
Returning to my musings on why I felt I had improved in the space of a year despite rarely cross-dressing, I think a few changes to the physical elements employed also made a big difference. I will admit I wish I had lovely smooth soft feminine skin, especially on my face but I don’t. I have a very dark beard shadow and rough skin around my chin and lips. I’m never ever going to entirely escape this but I’ve found a change in make-up technique has improved things.
I take a slow approach to my make-up, I want to look female so I’m not going to just throw it on. In my quest to try and get smoother looking skin I accept I need to wear heavier foundation. Women and fortunate men with nice skin and not much beard growth can wear lighter foundation coverage. I’m a man with rough skin and that dreaded beard shadow so I do need a heavier coverage. I am not concerned by this as some women I work with actually wear more foundation than I do! Real women are seen every day wearing heavy foundation so I’ve placed myself in that group of women.
A couple of years ago I bought an airbrush make-up applicator from Airbase. This uses a silicone based liquid foundation which you gently spray onto your face and slowly build up the coverage. It’s superb! You get a skin finish that is silky smooth and robust in that it stays on without slipping for hours. It also means you can try the the thickness of your coverage,. I use it heavier on my chin, around my mouth and my neck than on my upper face. You can make a much more subtle job of the foundation coverage. For a male to female cross-dresser the airbrush foundation technique is the creme de la creme. The negative of this is you do have to buy the airbrush and air compressor and the silicone make-up is quite expensive but the final results are mazing, your confidence will be boosted tremendously by how nice your skin looks.
Another technique I have used which is far more affordable yet produces pretty nice results in achieving smooth looking skin with a healthy glow is the use of a moistened teardrop sponge applicator and MAC full coverage foundation. You squeeze the foundation onto the sponge applicator then gently roll it onto your face. It is far superior to using your fingers or latex wedges, the finish is smooth and seamless with a delightful shine that looks nice and I was thrilled with the results knowing what my skin is like. I can definitely recommend this method. Don’t forget though to neutralise your beard area first with red make-up (I use red lipstick or Kryolan red camouflage cream).
Nice looking foundation makes a significant boost to your self confidence when presenting as a woman so I would urge investing in good make-up and mastering the application to your face.
The other element that I think improved my own female look and behaviour was deciding to clear out my female wardrobe in a brutal fashion. I made two big changes. I decided that lace front wigs would be better than my usual wigs and made the investment and I can assure you wearing one its whole new experience and another massive confidence booster. I threw away all the outfits that were either too ld or just not what a real women would ever choose to wear. I should clarify that I now seek to look like a real woman rather than a man wearing women’s clothes. It’s a change of direction and inevitably something I yet to succeed with but I’m enjoying trying to get there.
I have a lot of dresses, skirts and shoes that are not very convincing outfits, lots of short ones so I could show off my legs but not really what I would wear in public as I would definitely not look like an actual woman. As men dressing as women we tend to enjoy and get a thrill out of wearing short dresses and big heels or clothing combinations that we are excited to dress in. This is not a criticism but if your focus is to look like a real woman then you need to find the hair, make-up and clothing that works in the real world. I’m not suggesting dowdy clothes or we all wear jeans. There are very feminine women who wear dresses and skirts and make-up but look lovely rather than to use a phrase ‘overcooked outfit combinations’.
I have found it difficult to give up my short dresses and skirts as I am always thrilled to be wearing them but as I say, my focus has shifted now. My aim is to dress stylishly and be as feminine as I can but in a realistic way that people think I am a woman. I would say this is my biggest challenge to date. It’s going to be difficult.I’m very excited to go down this path though, very excited indeed!.
I’ve also decided to record my experiences of following this new focus and plan in the future to edit it into a short documentary. My aim is to complete it by late summer 2022. I’m still musing as to what to include in the film+, should I touch on my make-up techniques? I wondered about maybe meeting up for a chat with other T-girls? Should I explain why my investments in wigs and clothing changed? Is any of this of interest to anyone? That’s the real question! I do fear it’s a total vanity project in my head just now and making it would be the height of self indulgence. I’m keen to do it because the ruth is I’m just so enthused to be embarking on this path.
Certitudes - Incertitudes. [Explored 2019 October 2nd]
LACPIXEL - 2019
Please don't use this image without my explicit permission.
© All rights reserved
Less and less I think
Because I doubt more and more
The more the years go by,
the less the certainties
Less and less I shout
Because it is useless
More and more, I pray
But alone in my corner
Yes, know that we are nothing
Or almost nothing just
Three snowflakes on the basin
If we ignore the codes
We're fucked
But by following them too
We have no chance
Yes you know sometimes
The wheel turns
The wheel turns well
The wheel turns endlessly
On each beach, in each train
The wheel turns.
Sometimes It turns us away from good.
The wheel turns and the older we get
more we know, that we know nothing
Or almost nothing
The wheel turns too fast but turns well
I need not paint you a picture
More and more, the others
Will be less and less
Rarer but more sincere
Like your hands on your lover.
you grow up and how it suits you
But Beware of false friends
They turn, turn, turn in vain
And know that I know less
Even less than last night
Three dance steps
Then the dance floor is empty and black
By not following the rules
We are fucked in advance
But by following them all
We have no chance
The wheel turns too fast but turns well
I need not paint you a picture
a song is good
www.flickr.com/photos/locaburg
A 16x20 C-Print from "Certainty Principle" an exhibition of photography, video, and installation by Michael David Murphy. Sept. 23rd, 2010 through Oct. 30th, 2010 at Spruill Gallery in Atlanta.
"How should I know what I'll be, I who don't know what I am?
Be what I think? But I think of being so many things!
And there are so many who think of being the same thing that we can't all be it!
Genius? At this moment
A hundred thousand brains are dreaming they're geniuses like me,
And it may be that history won't remember even one,
All of their imagined conquests amounting to so much dung.
No, I don't believe in me.
Insane asylums are full of lunatics with certainties!
Am I, who have no certainties, more right or less right?
No, not even me . . ."
Tabacaria- Álvaro de Campos)
In a riot of electric purples, viridescent greens, and molten earth tones, "Transcendence in Color" channels the visceral force of internal awakening. The composition spirals and pulses, uncontained, suggesting both disintegration and emergence — the chaos that births clarity. This is not a still moment, but a living metamorphosis, where boundaries dissolve and the self reconstitutes. The eye is swept into vortexes of motion, into a liminal state where transformation is not a possibility — but a certainty.
---GSP
by Emily Dickinson
The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago --
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below --
Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde --
Her Cheek -- a Beryl hewn --
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known --
Her Lips of Amber never part --
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will --
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star --
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door --
Her Bonnet is the Firmament --
The Universe -- Her Shoe --
The Stars -- the Trinkets at Her Belt --
Her Dimities -- of Blue --
textures by Skeletalmess
Anima Series 6
Lismore NSW Australia 2019
Model: Alita Moxham
Courage and confidence are often intertwined in ways that are hard to distinguish. Like the branches of the Latin American plant Lantana, they are hopelessly entangled and share much in common.
Courage derives from the Latin word ‘cor’ meaning heart. It is strength in the face of adversity or grief. It is our ability to do something we know is dangerous or risky. Having courage allows us to take on things that are hard to achieve.
Confidence also has a Latin origin, ‘confidere’ meaning trust. It is having faith in something or certainty about our own ability to achieve an outcome.
Courage and confidence have a lot to do with achieving because to accomplish anything significant in life requires us to have the strength to see it through. It requires a certain amount of faith in our ability to get a result, or reach a desired destination.
The act of achieving, bringing something to a successful conclusion, demands we have enough trust in ourselves to make an attempt in the first instance, enough heart to try, enough 'bottle' to take the first step.
© All rights reserved. Any use without permission is prohibited and illegal
Per una visione migliore, tasto “L”- For a better view press “L”
-----------------------------------------------------------------
click to activate the icon of slideshow: the small triangle inscribed in the small rectangle, at the top right, in the photostream;
or…. press L to enlarge;
clicca sulla piccola icona per attivare lo slideshow: sulla facciata principale del photostream, in alto a destra c'è un piccolo rettangolo (rappresenta il monitor) con dentro un piccolo triangolo nero;
oppure…. premi L per ingrandire l'immagine;
www.worldphoto.org/sony-world-photography-awards/winners-...
www.fotografidigitali.it/gallery/2726/opere-italiane-segn...
……………………………………………………………………….
My health company, every three months, for three days, sends me to cover a shortage of staff, in the Lipari hospital, (and so do my colleagues), in the little free time I have available, I dedicate myself to my photographic passion.
Lipari is the largest island of the Aeolian Islands (they are located north of Sicily, one hour by hydrofoil from Milazzo); Lipari, under the fascist dictatorship, was the seat of forced confinement for political opponents, it was considered "a Sicilian Alcatraz", among all the islands of confinement, Lipari was most likely the most liveable, both for its considerable size that favored the relations of the confined with the inhabitants, both because, to a greater extent than elsewhere, in Lipari, confined persons were allowed to live in private residences, together with their families or other companions. I found written: "Being on an island that belongs to another island means feeling doubly foreign, tied to the will of the gods and nature, where every certainty can be swept away by the waves of that sea that laps it in every intimate part, but it is a sensation that lasts for a few minutes, the Liparoti (the inhabitants of Lipari, ed) know it well (as all Sicilians know), the Greek concept of Xenia, hospitality, is inherent in them, a written rule, is a duty that provides sanctity and protection for the guest ".
Lipari has a long history as a place of detention. It is the island where the common criminals were initially confined, then with the law of November 6, 1926 (the twenty-year fascist period begins with the seizure of power by fascism and Mussolini, officially occurred on October 31, 1922), Lipari thus became the a place to isolate and confine opponents; the life of the confined began immediately after disembarkation, with lodging in the dormitories of the Castle, under the strict surveillance of the police and the fascist militia, every morning, the confined were subjected to the appeal and they received a daily pay of 10 lire; they could move freely in the town, without however exceeding the demarcation line that surrounded the inhabited center; walking was the main activity, the saddest and most melancholy ones pushed to the limit allowed, to see the ferries arrive from Milazzo, aware that the sea was guarded by motorboats armed with machine guns. A situation that will not prevent Nitti, Rosselli and Lussu from fleeing the island, on a moonless night, between 27 and 28 July 1929.
I made some photo-portraits of people I didn't know, I thank them very much for their sympathy and their availability; I tried to capture the essence of minimal photographic stories, collected walking along the streets of Lipari ... in search of fleeting moments ...I used a particular photographic technique for some photographs at the time of shooting, which in addition to capturing the surrounding space, also "inserted" a temporal dimension, with photos characterized by being moved because the exposure times were deliberately lengthened, they are confused -focused-imprecise-undecided ... the Anglo-Saxon term that encloses this photographic genre with a single word is "blur", these images were thus created during the shooting phase, and not as an effect created subsequently, in retrospect, in the post-production
La mia azienda sanitaria, ogni tre mesi, per tre giorni, mi manda a ricoprire una carenza di organico, nell’ospedale di Lipari, (e così anche i miei colleghi), nel poco tempo libero che mi resta a disposizione, mi dedico alla mia passione fotografica.
Lipari è l’isola più grande delle isole Eolie (si trovano a nord della Sicilia, ad un’ora di aliscafo da Milazzo); Lipari , sotto la dittatura fascista, fu sede di confino coatto per gli oppositori politici, essa era considerata “un’Alcatraz siciliana”, fra tutte le isole di confino, Lipari fu molto probabilmente quella più vivibile, sia per le sue notevoli dimensioni che favorivano i rapporti dei confinati con gli abitanti, sia perché, in misura maggiore che altrove, a Lipari veniva consentito ai confinati di abitare in residenze private, insieme ai propri familiari o ad altri compagni. Ho trovato scritto: “Trovarsi su un Isola che appartiene a un’altra Isola, vuol dire sentirsi doppiamente straniero, legato al volere degli dei e della natura, dove ogni certezza può essere spazzata via dalle onde di quel mare che la lambisce in ogni intima parte, ma è una sensazione che dura per qualche minuto, i Liparoti (gli abitanti di lipari, n.d.r.)lo sanno bene (come lo sanno tutti i siciliani), è connaturato in loro il concetto greco della Xenia, l'ospitalità, non è una norma scritta, è un atto dovuto che prevede sacralità e protezione per l’ospite”.
Lipari ha una lunga storia come luogo di detenzione. È l’isola dove all’inizio erano confinati i delinquenti comuni, poi con la legge del 6 novembre 1926 (il ventennio fascista inizia con la presa del potere del fascismo e di Mussolini, ufficialmente avvenuta il 31 ottobre 1922), Lipari divenne così il luogo dove isolare e confinare gli oppositori; la vita del confinato iniziava subito dopo lo sbarco, con l’alloggio nelle camerate del Castello, sotto la rigida sorveglianza della polizia e della milizia fascista, ogni mattina, i confinati erano sottoposti all’appello e alla consegna della "mazzetta", ossia la paga giornaliera di 10 lire; potevano circolare liberamente nel paese, senza però superare la linea di demarcazione che circondava il centro abitato; passeggiare era la principale attività, i più tristi e malinconici si spingevano fino al limite consentito per vedere arrivare i traghetti da Milazzo, consapevoli che il mare era sorvegliato da motoscafi armati di mitragliatrici. Situazione che non impedirà a Nitti, Rosselli e Lussu di fuggire dall’isola, in una notte senza luna, tra il 27 e il 28 luglio del 1929.
Ho realizzato dei foto-ritratti di persone che non conoscevo, le ringrazio veramente tanto per la loro simpatia e la loro disponibilità; ho cercato di cogliere al volo l’essenza di storie fotografiche minime, raccolte camminando per le strade di Lipari... alla ricerca di attimi fugaci s-fuggenti ...
Ho utilizzato per alcune fotografie una tecnica fotografica particolare al momento dello scatto, che oltre a catturare lo spazio circostante, ha "inserito" anche una dimensione temporale, con foto caratterizzate dall’essere mosse poiché volutamente sono stati allungati i tempi di esposizione, sono confuse-sfocate-imprecise-indecise...il termine anglosassone che racchiude con una sola parola questo genere fotografico è "blur", queste immagini sono state così realizzate in fase di scatto, e non come un effetto creato successivamente, a posteriori, in fase di post-produzione.
A colourful Rosy Bonnet growing in the roots of an old oak tree in Salcey Forest. It has a tiny Milkcap neighbour, possibly an Oakbug Milkcap but too small to identify with certainty.
Finished work at 17.15 on Thursday.
The monthly 1Q82 was in the system and timed through Wukky at 17.43.
Weather forecast said more chance of brightness further north but that would be no good to me as traffic would mean I couldn't head up the coast with any certainty.
I left work and performed my own weather check by driving up the 595 to Winscales and looking out over the coast.
Parton had potential so I headed there.
Plan was to replicate the shot of the flasks from a few uploads ago but this time with sun.
As I parked the car by the tunnel two 68s went past with an early 6C46 Sellafield - Kingmoor flask but I was wrong side so had to let 'em go. They had been able to get away early due to the Northern Rail strike freeing up some pathing but I hadn't checked.
Oh well, time to focus on the main target. I knew that 37219 & 37421 were allocated, as they have been for the majority of the season, but I didn't know which was at the front.
Chucked the ladder up, sorted out some exposure and then the set-up appeared in the distance at Sea Brows some 7 minutes early.
This was definitely the last chance for me to nail it this season and with 421 at the sharp end and the sun playing ball to say that I was a happy chappie would be an understatement of biblical proportions.
When you look upon a tomb stone, all most people see is just that, an empty grave site. But if you can look closer perhaps another story can unfold. So was the case of a distant relative of mine.
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Arthur LeClair was Murdered Dec. 22, in 1907 in Neche, North Dakota and was a distant family member of mine. He was murdered by his best friend. It made headlines in the surrounding towns. A very interesting story to read with a "surprise ending".
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The Pink Paper
Bathgate, Pembina Co, North Dakota
December 25, 1907
HORRIBLE MURDER
ARTHUR LECLAIR OF NECHE
KILLED WITH A HATCHET
Suspect arrested at Bathgate on Monday
Coroner’s inquest to be held today.
On Monday morning this city was greatly stirred up over a phone message to the effect that Arthur LeClair, well known to our young people, had been murdered the previous evening at Neche.
Inquiry at the chronotype office brought the following information. Arthur had been about town on Sunday evening until about 11:15 p.m. when he started home along.
That was the last seen as he did not go home, that night, his father became some what worried over his absence. He called the residence of Robert Faulker, a neighbor, and the two started to look for him. They thought he might have gone to the ice rink on the river near the Great Northern Railroad crossing and perhaps had fallen in some way and injured himself. When within a few hundred feet of the dam they came across a pool of blood but were not especially alarmed, thinking it, that of some animal. They followed the bloody trail and shortly came on a small axe or hatchet covered with blood and as they approached the dam they saw Arthur’s hat at the head of it. By this time they were fully aroused to the seriousness of the situation. There was blood down the apron of the dam and a small opening consequent on the flow of water but the body could not be seen. Mr. Faulker went to his residence near by and secured an axe and enlarged the opening a few feet when they saw the body of Arthur under the water and the remains were quickly recovered and taken to the residence of his parents. His face was not disfigured but there was a large gash in the back of his head through which his blood flowed.
The Lampman family and others of Neche people heard screams the previous evening about the hour Arthur must have started for home but thought it was probably some late roysters from across the line and paid no particular attention to it. At this hour of going to press nothing definite seems to have developed regarding the murderer or the cause of the crime.
As is usual in such cases the air is full of rumors, the most authentic of which connects the name of a Negro transient with the crime. The Negro is said to have been seen in Arthur’s company on Sunday and later in the day was evidently under the influence of liquor. He was in Neche until Monday morning when he left afoot in a southerly direction and stopped at the Vospers, Hicks, Messacres and other places and reach Bathgate shortly after noon. Marshall O’Harra received notice that the Negro was probably in this place and was wanted as a suspect. O’Harra soon rounded him up and he was taken back to Neche by officers. So far as we are able to learn the evidence against the suspect is purely circumstantial. The inquest will probably develop farther facts.
Arthur LeClair resided at Neche since his birth, with his parents and was 21 years of age. He has been engaged for some time past as fireman on the Neche and Walhalla branches of the Great Northern Railroad. He was at home to spend the holidays. The Neche people are aroused and will see that the matter is sifted to the bottom and the murderer brought to justice. It was evidently the most cold blooded and shocking murders ever committed in this county and no expense should be spared on the part of the county officials to make the investigation most thorough.
Coroner Bour of St. Thomas has been notified but not in time to get to the scene of the crime on Monday.
The Pink Paper
Bathgate, Pembina Co, North Dakota
January 1, 1907
The funeral of Arthur LeClair took place on Thursday. The body was taken from the LeClair home to the R. C. church, where a very brief and simple service was said by Rev Fr. Fobes. The casket was covered with floral tributes, and the hearse was followed by a large delegation of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Fireman, of which Arthur was a member, with whom marched a number of other friends of the dead boy, forming quite a procession. Interment was made in the Catholic cemetery here.
The Pink Paper
****Jan. 1, 1907****
Mr. Eli Roy, father of Mrs. Fred LeClair, and Mrs. J. Roy, sister-in-law of same, of St. Jean, Manitoba, arrived on Tuesday, calied by the death of Arthur LeClair.
The Pink Paper
Jan. 8, 1908
NECHE MURDER
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WAS ONE OF THE MOST LAMENTABLE
CRIMES EVER COMMITTED IN
PEMBINA COUNTY
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James O’Brien, of Neche made a complete confession of the murder of Arthur LeClair, the Great Northern Fireman, Sunday. The 16 year old slayer gave up the details of his crime to J. C. Crawford a Pinkerton detective, who had been working on the case.The confession came after he had been confronted with his bloody clothing, hatchet with which the crime had been committed a bloody scarf and other evidences of his guilt. When the news was broken to the father of O’Brien, for years a resident of Neche and Customs Officer there, he broke down completely. Fred LeClair the father of the murdered boy called on him in an endeavor to console him.
Detective Crawford, 18 years in the business, had quite a time getting the murderer to confess. He worked various schemes and was finally successful, after picturing to the boy, the certainty of his conviction, and calling his attention to the great expense with which his father would be burdened, in case he fought the case in District Court.
The following is the complete confession of young O’Brien: To J.C. Crawford Pinkerton Detective.
On Sunday December 22, 1907, LeClair and I went to Gretna twice and drank each time. Coming back the second time both of us were quarreling as to who was the Best Man and LeClair said he could lick three O’Brien’s and I got mad. When we left Cook’s shop, I made an excuse to go out to the closet and I got a hatchet and we started for the rink. When we got down there he made some remarks about fighting me and he put one foot behind me and threw me over. I got up and he hit me and I hit him with a hatchet and after I saw what I had done, I hit him again and took his pocketbook and threw it in the river. I got the hatchet from behind the house where the ice is kept. I threw the body over the bank and followed the body down the bank, I think I had hold of him by the collar and dropped him right at the head of the dam, in the river. James O’Brien-
Witness (to Confession)
J.H. Anderson
J.C. Fielding
George Roadhouse
I James O’Brien, do voluntarily make a statement in my own handwriting and of my own free will before witness, J.C. Fielding and Geo. Roadhouse, that the contents and page no. 2 is a true statement of how I, James O’Brien, killed Arthur LeClair on Sunday, December 22, 1907. I have written this statement for the purpose of telling the truth on my part and have not shield anyone, as there was nobody implicated but myself.
_James O’Brien
Dated Sunday, December 22, 1907
Witness- Geo. Roadhouse
-J.C. Fielding
An effort was made yesterday to locate the money claimed by O’Brien to have been thrown in the Pembina River. Ice was broken but the money was not found. It is thought probable that O’Brien had not told the truth about the quarrel with LeClair and the disposition of the money. LeClair was not of a quarrelsome disposition and it is the general opinion, that he was killed in Cold Blood.
Although the above confession has been since shown by the boy murderer himself to have been in part a lie, it contains at least one horrible truth-James O’Brien foully murdered his friend. Whether he committed the crime as he relates it or whether he stepped behind LeClair and dealt the blow that felled him to the ground-interrupting perhaps a friendly conversation to do this deep most dark and damnable-will perhaps never be known except to him who has forever quitted god’s good sunshine for the light of a felon’s cell, who has forever breathed his last of the sweet air of liberty.
To return to the proceedings of the Saturday session of the coroner’s inquest. James O’Brien was the principal witness. He did not waver as he told states attorney Brynjolfson lie for lie; he did not change color when his gray haired father was forced to undergo the ordeal of accounting for his son’s movements the night of the murder; he did not blush for shame when his sorrow stricken mother was called upon to tell of the hatchet with which he had slain his chum; he did not even shudder when confronted with his own garments in which he knew was dried the blood of Arthur LeClair yet the meshes of the law were already about the boy, and he felt them tighten when he was place under arrest by sheriff Roadhouse Saturday evening. He must have realized that his guilt was known when he was taken to Pembina and place in a cell, in the county jail, but never, do we think, has he realized the enormity of his crime. He sang and whistled in his cell, and managing to lift the window, called to his acquaintances and held converse with them.
Pinkerton detective Crawford was admitted to O’Brien cell on Sunday afternoon, he told the boy that his guilt was known and that the proofs were positive He told him that one or two fates surely awaited him-hanging or life imprisonment. He told him that his crime was of a nature that merited hanging, and that the law had so inexorably provided. O’Brien still maintained his innocence. The detective told him that if the case came to trail and the prisoner entered a pea of not guilty, his guilt would surely be proven to the jury, and the Judge would undoubtedly be obligated, in view of the conclusive evidence submitted, to give him to the gallows. He told the boy that if he plead not guilty his father would, beggar himself in his defense, and all to no end-the result would be the same- a verdict of guilt. Still the boy protested that he had nothing to do with the murder of Arthur LeClair. Then the Pinkerton man told Jimmie that there were others suspected of complicity, and that a confession from him would not only cause sympathy as could be extended a murderer for himself, but would accelerate the ends of justice, while on the contrary if he, the prisoner, remained silent he could expect no mercy if found guilty, and a stigma of doubt would forever attach to the names of some perhaps innocent people. Already, the detective urges, the prisoner’s parents had suffered the pangs and pains of heartbreak, and by maintaining his innocence to the end, they would be further humiliated and their shame and sorrow held up to the gaze of all men, O’Brien was still obdurate. Then, after the detective had presented all these arguments in every light-and sympathy for the unfortunate boy perhaps made him eloquent-Jimmie at last burst into tears, and laying his head on Mr. Crawford knee’s confessed that he “did it alone.” Both the prisoner and the detective were now weeping. The confession followed which the boy-murderer has since himself proven to be a lie with the exception of the one all important fact-his hand, and his alone, dealt the blows that drove the life from the body of Arthur LeClair.
States-attorney Brynjolfson was called at once. O’Brien wrote with a lead pencil the confession which appears foregoing, in the presence of the witnesses whose names are there unto, subscribed. On Monday morning detective Crawford drove to Neche with the confession in his pocket, and proceeded to publish it to the townspeople. Everyone-even the family of the murderer-experience a feeling of great relief. Everyone had been morally certain-as certain as men can be before a trail by judge and jury-that James O’Brien had been the main actor in the hideous drama enacted on the night of December 22, but the demeanor of the murderer and the peculiar character of the trail made by dragging the body from the river bank to the hole below the dam-which indicated to those whose good judgment was recognized and respected that two had dragged the corpse, one at the head and one at the feet-led may to a belief that O’Brien had at least one accomplice. When it was learned that no one else had been in any way concerned in the commission of the crime everyone breathed freer, and to some the knowledge came as a relief from doubt and suspense.
*
*
After the inquest the prisoner made a request that he be allowed to see his parents before he was taken back to jail. The request was granted. In the intervening time, before his father could come to see him, he managed to communicate with one of the town boys to the effect that he would “find something, if he look under the rocks at the dam”. The officers were at once apprised of this statement, and a thorough search was made of the place mentions, which revealed nothing but three lead pencils found hidden under a stone. When the prisoner was allowed to see his father the latter on his knees begged his son to tell what had been done with the money. “I burned it,” was the reply. The search for the money by cutting ice below the dam was now discontinued. Shortly the prisoner left his parents, he told the detective that if he would allow, the place where the money was hidden would be revealed. The officer went with the boy to his father barn, and in the loft from under a handful of twine on a beam the boy took seventy dollars six five and four ten dollar bills. This O’Brien vowed was all the money he had taken from LeClair, the pocketbook he said he had burned in the kitchen stove. Sheriff Roadhouse took his prisoner back to Pembina Tuesday evening. Since then he has further amended his original confession by admitting that he had no quarrel with LeClair. This marks every vestige of the original confession as untruth, with the exception of the bare fact of the murder.
Detective Crawford on Wednesday secured a sworn affidavit from a seventeen year old boy who was a eye witness to the murder. The boy was
going home from Giadue’s rink that night about 11:15, and when coming up the road that runs along the river bank he saw figures ahead of him, and by their conversation recognized them as Arthur LeClair and James O’Brien. He was at this time standing about 60 feet from the spot where the murder occurred. As the boy relates it in his affidavit a conversation like this ensued between O’Brien; O’Brien-”Come on, Goose, let’s go down to the rink.” LeClair-”No, I'm sick; I’m going home and to bed.” O’Brien-”If you’re sick, lets walk to the woods-walk off your jag.” LeClair-”No, “I’m going home to bed.” O’Brien-”What you afraid of the wolves?” LeClair-Not afraid of anything, but I’m going home to bed.” The boy who had over heard this conversation saw the murder done. He ran home in terror, told his father what he had heard and seen, and begged him not to tell for fear “they might do something to him for it .” The affidavit was given on condition that the boy’s name would not be disclosed. It proves that there was nothing like a quarrel or a scuffle just before the murder. The thing was done in cold blood-a murder most foul.
O’Brien was given a preliminary hearing at Pembina Thursday. He plead guilty and was bound over to the session of the District court for sentence. It is believed he will receive a sentence of life imprisonment. The character of his crime would indicate that he can receive nothing less than this-If indeed, he escapes the hangman.
The Pink Paper
Jan. 15, 1908
CRIMINAL CALENDER
James O’Brien, aged 16 years, was sentenced at Pembina to life imprisonment for the murder of Arthur LeClair the Great Northern Fireman at Neche on Dec. 22th.
O’BRIEN PLEADED GUILTY
An appeal for clemency was made by John F. Conmy, attorney for the prisoner. Attorney Conmy pointed to the youth of the prisoner and the fact that he had become intoxicated as a result of saloons being kept open illegally at Gretna (Canada) on Sunday. As attorney Conmy pleaded for him O’Brien broke down and wept.
Judge W. J. Kneeshaw spoke for about 15 minutes to the prisoner and his remarks were intended as much for the great crowd assembled in the court room. He pictured O’Brien as one who had given away to his baser feelings and who was not about to pay the penalty. Bad habit, disregard for the law and the rights of others finally ended in the murder of a friend for a paltry sum of money.
A foul murder has been committed in Neche, by a boy of tender years, only sixteen years of age. He comes of a good family but had previous to
committing this crime built up an unsavory reputation. We do not know why. Whether improper administration of the parent is responsible for the acts of a boy so young can not always be determined. But waywardness and evil tendencies manifest themselves in a character at premature age and then is the time to apply or administer the remedy. Keep track of the boy and try and see that he does not frequent places of questionable demeanor that fill the atmosphere with the fumes of moral perversion. See to it that he selects
Good and Virtuous companions and guide him along the pathway of youth in
such manner that no one can point a finger of scorn at you for delinquency in parental duties. The church, the Sunday school, the home and the Public school have that boy in their care and his future is molded by the influences and environments of youth. “As the twig is bent, the tree is inclined”, if you deem yourself a good father or mother keep your eye on your boy.
O’Brien father was present in the court room with the boy. The old man is over come with sorrow and the disgrace the boy had brought upon him.
O’Brien was taken to the penitentiary Saturday evening.
Before passing sentence Judge Kneeshaw said;
“You are accused of murder in the first degree for the murder of Arthur LeClair, aforethought, with premeditated design to effect the death of Arthur LeClair; then and there assaulted and beat him with a hatchet from which he died. Have you any reason why the court should not sentence you?”
PLEA FOR O’BRIEN
J. P. Conmy, counsel for the defendant, in reply said:
“At this time, before sentence is pronounced, we wish to say a few words. We know just the position in which the court is placed in this case according to the law. However, we throw our self upon the mercy of the court and ask for clemency. Consider the character of the accused. He is not a hardened and unfeeling criminal. We do not mean that there should be no punishment for crime, on account of the tender age-but we do feel that in this case where a boy has confessed. In such a case, your honor, we believe that there is due clemency from this court. However, now that matters have been placed before you in their true light, that the accused stands before you readily, bear in mind the youthfulness of the lad-life is sweet to him-and the heartrending of his parents. Extend to him all the clemency in your power. This confession was not given to obtain the mercy of the court. It was given by James O’Brien with the purpose of removing the doubt, if there was any, from others and to prevent any further torture to his parents. On the circumstances surrounding the crime let me dwell. Let me introduce to you the surrounding which have assailed the life of the accused, the bars, and saloons of Grenta, the one necessary qualification being the price. How easy to pass from one station to the other. Think of the temptations which surrounded your life, of the temptations of any boy at the age of 16. How easy then it was to fall into temptations, which robbed him of his senses from unlawful administration of others. While we ask clemency we know the position in which the court is placed. His confession was made to free all others on whom the shadow of doubt might rest.”
COURT TO THE ACCUSED
Judge Kneeshaw said to James O’Brien:
“The law of this state when a defendant pleads guilty to a charge of murder provides that if he pleads guilty to murder in the second degree it then devolves into murder and the court may then examine witnesses in order to inquire into the enormity of the crime, or he may call in a jury to pass on the punishment, or he may refuse to pass on the plea and submit the case to a jury. In this case I have decided to receive the plea of guilty in the first degree and I will say that by so doing I have been placed in a very trying position. You, James O’Brien, I have known since you were a baby, and I have known your father and mother for 30 years. They are some of the old settlers in the county, and when I say old settlers of the Red River valley I mean they consist of the best people that ever lived. I have known your father when I was a young man, and learned to like him as a brother, and it is indeed, a trying thing for me to pass sentence upon you. I have no doubt that the bars of Gretna are largely responsible for the death of LeClair. No person can realize that a boy your age could ever commit a crime as been developed in this case. No more dastardly deed has ever been committed in this county.
JUDICIAL MURDER
“The penalty provided for such crime is death or imprisonment for life. In this case I will say and I feel proud to be able to say that I consciously do not believe that capital punishment is justifiable. Hanging is nothing but judicial murder. There is no excuse for a state to take a man out in cold blood and hang him by the neck. Most people of the present day believe hanging is a relic of barbarism. Now, Jimmie, you can see what whisky, and bad company have brought upon you. You can realize that in cold blood, you killed your chum and brought him before God and his maker. You can see what trouble rests upon your parents and all on account of whisky and bad company. I have noticed that during the proceedings you have shed many tears. I am glad of that. I believe that when a boy is able to shed tears and show that he is penitent that there is some hope that he may repent. This is indeed not only to you and boys of this country of the bad effects of whisky and I hope that everyone in my hearing will take this home with them. Now, Jimmie, I will have to sentence you. I hope that god’s holy spirit may be with you and help you and guide you in your future life. I think I have expressed to you all I can on this line.
“The sentence of the court is that you James O’Brien, shall be confined in the state penitentiary in the county of Burleigh, state of North Dakota, at hard labor for the rest of your natural life, commencing at 12 o’clock noon today.”
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Epilogue:
When World War I broke out the army needed bodies and promised any one in prison who would serve in the army, and survived, would be offered a pardon when the war ended. As luck would have it O’Brien served throughout the war without a scratch. After the war he returned to Neche. However, the local people would have nothing to do with him and shunned him. After a short time he left and was never seen or heard from again.
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M U S T ~ V I E W ~ O N ~ B L A C K
Winter of 2007, Kumbum, Gyantse, Tibet. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kumbum
>>> A recent roll of processed film that remains a bit mysterious. Well, it's been sitting around for quite some time, and being mostly single exposures, it seems to have been in all probability set aside for collaboration [my old CPP experiment]. The mystery starts with not recalling the camera used, which is mundane (again, it's been a long time, and the cannister was unmarked ;), but is more engaging just looking at this image... I obviously don't know with any certainty, but don't believe that I had this result in mind when shooting this. A time capsule surprise, a photo I might actually like if the evidence didn't so directly implicate me as the perpetrator. ;-}
Thank you for taking a look. Prost.
This magnificent limestone head is probably the vestige of a sculpted group, an altarpiece or the decoration of a chapel in the cathedral of Laon. Without certainty, we like to recognize in this figure that of the apostle Peter.
A remarkable piece of the lapidary deposit, the work was stolen from the cathedral during World War II. It was returned in 2009 to the Laon Museum by the family of the “thief”.
Exhibition "My little museum" July 01 - September 27, 2020
Former Saint-Martin abbey - Suzanne Martinet Library
02000 - Laon
Hauts de France (France)
Cette magnifique tête en calcaire est probablement le vestige d’un groupe sculpté, d’un retable ou du décor d’une chapelle de la cathédrale de Laon. Sans certitude, on se plaît à reconnaître dans cette figure celle de l’apôtre Pierre.
Pièce remarquable du dépôt lapidaire, l’oeuvre fut volée dans la cathédrale durant la Seconde Guerre Mondiale. Elle fut restituée en 2009 au Musée de Laon par la famille du « voleur ».
Exposition « Mon petit musée » 01 juillet - 27 septembre 2020
Ancienne abbaye Saint-Martin - Bibliothèque Suzanne Martinet
02000 - Laon
Hauts de France (France)
the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out :-)
― Václav Havel
HPPT!!
prunus mume, pink Japanese flowering apricot, 'Peggy Clarke', j c raulston arboretum, ncsu, Raleigh, north carolina
Dicyrtomina ornata is a springtail species from the Dicyrtomidae family. The scientific name of the species was first validly published in 1842 by Nicolet
It is very similar to Dicyrtomina saundersi but differs from this in that the beams on the fifth abdomen segment merge into a spot. Because the mark on the back is variable, it is difficult to distinguish this species with certainty from photo.