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And live my life ,
And have friends around .
We never change, do we ?
We never learn, do we ?
N i k o n F M 2 + N i k k o r 5 0 / 1 . 4
E f i n i t i S u p e r U X i 2 0 0
Here is another shot from Canyonlands. I spent a long time composing this shot, and even longer trying to get the crop just right. I really don't know what makes it special for me, but it is one of my favorite shots from this area. Really curious to hear thoughts.
I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving!!!
For workshop info, or to view my portfolio in a much better space please visit my website found on my profile page.
If you have the time, worth a look!
Another shot from my home away from home...NY Botanical Gardens. I never get enough of their Water Lily and Lotus Pond, no matter what time of year it is! I really do enjoy my time here! There is such a big difference between the NY and Brooklyn Gardens, Brooklyn, besides being small is more peaceful I think. But I love them both!
The beautiful changes in life are constant in the gardens, but none so noticeable as in the ponds.
I want to truly thank you my friends, for all your visits and comments. Much appreciated!
Be well all.....
;0}
Explore...much thanks!
...plus c'est la même chose.
When I used to frequent Tonbridge West Yard in the 1980s, taking the long way round from school to the station, there were usually a few 73s on show - albeit not the re-engined variety. GBRf's 73963 waits for its next task as 73141 shunts RHTT wagons in the background.
Locomotives: GB Railfreight Class 73/9 73963 "Janice" and Class 73/1 73141 "Charlotte".
Location: Tonbridge West Yard, Kent.
Take me to the magic of the moment
On a glory night
Where the children of tomorrow dream away (Dream away)
In the wind of change...
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Shifting through some old files, passing the time while it rains cats and dogs outside...
Many thanks to you ALL for the views, faves and comments you make on my shots it is very appreciated
Mi “invierno” acabó hace ya tiempo, pero sigo sin tener mucha actividad en las redes sociales. En parte se debe a mi habilidad para disponer cada vez de menos tiempo sin realmente hacer nada de provecho (soy una desastre T_T ), y en parte a un cierto rechazo a Flickr desde que calificaron a mi galería de fotos como “restringida”, al mismo nivel que la pornografía mas dura. Esto último es muy sencillo de arreglar, lo único que tengo que hacer es abrir una nueva cuenta de Flickr y mi galería volverá a ser “segura”. Pero no quiero hacerlo, o no quiero hacerlo exactamente así, en parte por una cuestión de dignidad y en parte por una cuestión de identidad como Melisa. De todas formas yo siempre he utilizado Flickr como si fuera mi blog, y quizás ha llegado el momento de tener un blog real. No es solo Flickr, todas las redes sociales de una u otra manera nos dejan desprotegidas ante cualquier denuncia por el hecho de ser chicas crossdresser. Por eso cuando acabó mi “invierno” decidí crear un blog que se convirtiera en mi sitio principal en la red, mi piedra de toque. Ese sitio hasta este momento era esta galería de Flickr. Eso no significa que vaya a dejar esta cuenta, ni mucho menos, seguiré estando para mis amigas exactamente igual, participaré y subiré cosas siempre que pueda, solo que mi forma de enfocar esta cuenta será diferente y girará en torno a mi blog. Además, Flickr con este último cambio se ha vuelto muy fotográfico, cosa lógica por otra parte y que no es mala. Puede que incluso abra otra cuenta “segura”.
Esta es el link que os llevará a mi blog:
melisagarciablog.blogspot.com.es/
aún está en construcción, y el hacer de el algo que me guste es toda una diversión.
Con este blog no persigo que tenga muchas visitas, ni comentarios, ni “me gusta” ni nada de eso. Con este blog solo quiero expresarme, divertirme y que cuado lo lea pasado un tiempo pueda decir: ¡me gusta mi blog! Y eso es algo que tengo la suerte de poder decir de mi galería de Flickr.
My "winter" ended long ago, but I still have no a lot of activity on social networks. In part due to my ability to have increasingly less time without actually doing anything useful (I'm a mess T_T), and partly to a certain reluctance to Flickr since qualified my photo gallery as "restricted", the same level as the hardest pornography. This is very easy to fix, all I have to do is open a new Flickr account and my gallery will be "safe" again. But I will not do it, or do not want to do exactly that, partly as a matter of dignity and partly a question of identity as Melisa. Anyway I've always used Flickr as my blog, and maybe it's time to have a real blog. Not just Flickr, all social networks in one or another way leave us unprotected to any complaint for being a crossdresser girls. So when finished my "winter" decided to create a blog that will become my main site on the net, my touchstone. That site until now was this Flickr gallery. That does not mean I will leave this account, far from it, I still with my friends exactly the same, I going to participate and I will upload things whenever I can, only just my way of focusing this account will be different and will revolve around my blog. In addition, Flickr with this latest change has become very photographic, otherwise logical thing and it's not bad. Maybe even open another account "safe".
This is the link that takes you to my blog:
melisagarciablog.blogspot.com.es/
is still under construction, and making of it something I like is very fun.
This blog does not pursue to have many visitors, or comments or "like" or anything like that. With this blog I just want to express myself, have fun and when, pass time, I read it I can say: I like my blog! And that is something that I have the good fortune to be able to say of my Flickr gallery.
Unfortunately my blog for now is only in spanish, but perhaps soon also have entries in english ... or something fairly similar to english XD and always have pictures or videos each entry, for sure, and for that you do not need language XDD
PS. Si quieres ver un video con este look (If you want see a video with this look) :
We have 55018, in 1979, working the 10:45 Leeds - Kings Cross passing Lofthouse Colliery. I am stood on the road bridge, which now gives access to Outwood station.
The view 41 years later, has an Azuma, working a Leeds - Peterborough service (due to Sunday engineering works). This shot is from the drone, as no photo is possible from the road bridge due to trees.
Lofthouse colliery site is now a nature reserve, and has a memorial to the 7 miners who lost their lives when the workings at the colliery were flooded on March 21st, 1973.
Oh, how the light changes… it gave Monet his Haystack Series,
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haystacks_(Monet)
And never fails to delight and surprise me here, when least expected.
This photo was taken 5 minutes before 'Last light'..
Can you believe it…and one of the swans is just paddling into view..
Besides a little straighten up, no edits.
This is exactly what I was seeing.
Reminds me, well, it's almost the colours of our Australian flag of the indigenous.
aboriginalflag.com.au/history.html
Each colour has a symbolic meaning for them as a collective people.
Which brings me to this story, of when I was last here at the lake...
Almost this time last year, mid-August, 3 days after my mother's birthday, I took a few hours off and met up with a fellow poet and high school teacher, Robert, for lunch at the kiosk at the other end of the lake.
We chose this spot because there wouldn't be many people around during the week, and we could be as loud and animated as we like, reading each other our latest poems.
There was only one other table occupied at this outdoor café, an older lady and her male friend, and on second look, I realised it was Liz, whom I hadn't seen for years.
We used to swap my kinesiology for her Reiki, way back in the 90's...
She was having lunch with a fellow whom she'd met on holiday up at Wilpeena Pound, and he was passing through on his way back to Sydney.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilpena_Pound
(Thought this was a weird coincidence as the poem I'd planned to read gave mention and great respect to this place.)
They were both indigenous. (Also a coincidence, in regards to the poem..)
LIz recognised me too and we were both delighted to see each other, so I invited them over to sit and listen to my reading after we'd all finished eating.
The poem I'd intended to read to Robert now had a surprise bigger audience, and little did Liz and friend know that they were in for quite a surprise…
My poem was about rural life in the 1900's and onwards, as had been told to me, about how it was for the aboriginal peoples when us 'whities' moved in, just a bit further south of here, in western New South Wales.
It takes a final twist at the end, relating to the events surrounding my mother's birth on a sheep station, outside Tamworth, 1929.
Mum's mother had come down with influenza which rapidly became severe pneumonia. This brought on early labour, and she died giving birth to a tiny premature baby, who grew up to be my own mother.
This took place in the harshest part of the freezing cruel winter, that is well known to descend and sweep across the broad expansive Liverpool Plains, that has no protection against the icy gale force winds..
Mum's Aunty Ida was a full blood indigenous lady from the 'Kamillaroi' people, married to my white Great Uncle Bill.
As typical of the times, this was quite a bone of contention, quietly chewed upon by the rest of the family..
But amongst all the following grief and mêlée, she was the one who stepped forward to take this fragile premmy home, to raise her with her own half cast children after the death of her white sister-in-law.
Mum's own father, a butcher and book keeper for the Currabubulla Sheep Station was a drinking, gambling man who, in shock at the sudden death of his very capable wife, was ill equipped to run the house and care for 4 other children.
And so he let this new fragile baby go, thinking she was so weak, she wouldn't survive for long anyway ..
Two years had passed when he heard through the grapevine that little two year old Betty was actually blossoming with robust health, and from the urgings of his other children, now settled into coping without their deceased mother and two years older as well, quite looking forward to having their little sister rather than facing the ordeal of caring for a sickly newborn…well, he went and took her back from their aboriginal Aunty Ida..and brought her home.
My mother had grown up for her first two years, quite happily with this loving blended family.. who, of course, were left heartbroken, when discovering they'd been told a lie, and little Betty wasn't going to visit her real siblings, just for the day …and wouldn't be 'coming back tomorrow'…as promised...
In fact, Mum had to wait another 45 long years before I could find her half cast cousin, Una , to be reunited..
Her father justified it all with the excuse to the rest of his family that he'd heard that full blood Aunty was going on Walkabout soon and was going to take little Betty with her.
My poem concluded that without this wonderful aboriginal woman, my Great Aunty Ida, and her huge heart, my own mother had little chance of survival, and my immediate family that is a little twig of the whole ancestry tree may never have existed.
Well, all three of my audience sat transfixed at the social/anthroplolgical details I'd managed to write in rhyming, rhythmic, poetic verse.
While reading it aloud to my indigenous friends, at various points I became painfully aware of how close to the bone some of the subject matter was in their history of dismissive disregard from the white man, and I'd pause, almost to gasp for the next breath... should I skip the next bit? It's so raw!
But I'd glance up from the page at Liz, and see her sitting back with a grin from ear to ear, gently nodding with such huge satisfaction and appreciation that her people had just received a gift of precious, heartfelt validation of their struggles of recognition ever since 'civilised colonisation' began over 200 nears ago.
Lets just say it surpassed a certain flaky, belated "Sorry…" message from the govt about 7 years ago.
I won't risk my "Safe" category by saying the more earthier Aussie version of that..
Gosh though, I'm still glad I'd already cut three of the most graphic chapters out of it…
The poem begins with a tribute to Eddie Mabo, tireless campaigner for indigenous rights, then there's about ten pages of a collection of stories told to me first hand from various people over the years, entwined together to paint the bigger picture, concluding with my mother's rocky beginning in life and how she was given a second chance at this life by an indigenous angel..
There's more to the story of this day, to be continued another time perhaps…but for now I'll finish by telling you that during one chapter I had to stop reading completely and break down into sobs.
I was in such a state of overwhelm, it had hit me that it was such a privilege to be able to read it to an indigenous audience and they absolutely loved it.
Yes, I had written it, but it was only then that I really started to feel the depth of it..
Meanwhile, poor Robert, my straight-laced, conservative, whiter-than-white teacher friend sat at the end of the table gobsmacked-speechless with awe throughout the whole proceedings, and totally forgotten, due to all the interaction between the rest of us..
But hey ~ Phew! ~ What a day...
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