Compulsive Bay Area Shooters
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Every time I went on any vacation, I would enjoy most of my vacation from behind my camera lens. The number of photographs I take on any given day of a vacation are from 5,000-10,000. Just uploading them to a portable external hard drive each day is a real feat and you should see the size of my memory cards!
And, why, you might wonder, would I have to take so many photographs? Well, I'll tell you, I have an innate fear that if I don't capture everything I see, it will vanish and cease to exist. My trips are like a glimpse into other lives and timelines.
Over time, I have learned the great skill of laughing at myself. I started to see the absurdity of taking so many photos...now, when am I ever going to find the time to look through all these? Well, I'm finding the time. I'm finding the time right now. And, let me tell you, after looking through the photostreams of those who are taking photos of Paris every day, like Jacques Delaire, for example, I can't wait to get back there and take 100,000 more photos.
But, I also have an appreciation for the fact that these photos may not ever happen again, not just because there is something about street photography that captures a specific spontaneous moment of time but also because we're at a point now where I'm wondering if we'll ever truly get out of this pandemic and how much we've all changed since it started. There have always been economic and political anxieties world wide...but this pandemic has changed our brains in the way we consider reality and also mortality.
In another timeline, I am dancing in the streets of Paris with a wine glass in one hand and a beautiful cat in my arms. In that timeline, I'm with two friends I really care about and we're singing about stupid yet important things and it doesn't matter if we fall all over ourselves or on our faces. Because, we're together in Paris.
Check out Jacques Delaire's photostream here:
www.flickr.com/photos/155081845@N07/
**All photos are copyrighted in all timelines**
one of my obsessive-compulsive sewing pieces - part of a larger piece that i am working on - very slowly... it actually looks nicer in person.
I view anything orderly in this disorderly world as mesmerizing.
This is a freshly prepared irrigation field on a rare cloudy day in rural Arizona. It is the only method of farming in this harsh desert climate and it was originally developed by the ancient Hohokam Indians, nearly 3,000 years ago
Today we safely arrived to our new home, after almost one week on the roads. Our old scooters was struggling but stubborn, without any big mishaps. By the way........ "New home" ? The only thing I can say is, that my granddads' brother was one big compulsive liar ! We thought he owned a Manor, which he bragged about every time we were in contact. Now I know why he always was busy or out of town, when we wanted to visit him. Well, he was odd...... but this is weird.
We arrived very early this morning, it is still dark. So we haven´t been able to make a proper look yet. But this is a hovel, and the garden is a scrap yard. But though we can´t return, we have to deal with it. So we broke in...... and after a primitive meal (some eggs and bacon) we laughed for a while and said :
- "It has to go. We have to try at least !"
Thank God I have Stella. Not everybody would take this situation like she did, and I probably should quail! Now we try to sleep a couple of hours on the old pallet sofa, and do a proper inspection of our heritage tomorrow in daylight.
Good night...... or rather morning !
Recommended song: Icona Pop - Det måste gå
www.youtube.com/watch?v=6cQtiI5P-Lk
It has to go (Det måste gå)
The road ends, at the mountain top.
This early morning, before the sun goes up.
The day is waiting, feels like time stand still.
Come give me strength, come give me courage.
It has to go
It has to go
The will is there, to try at least!
The sun rises slowly, and heats the soil
which needs all the heat, and a future trust.
Within me, many questions remain
who is burning of longing, after answers.
It has to go
It has to go
The will is there, to try at least!
La la la la .........
The will is there to try, try at least
Just gotta go
it just has to go
The will is there to try, try at least
just have to go
la la la la .......
It has to go
It has to go
Today we safely arrived to our new home, after almost one week on the roads. Our old scooters was struggling but stubborn, without any big mishaps. By the way........ "New home" ? The only thing I can say is, that my granddads' brother was one big compulsive liar ! We thought he owned a Manor, which he bragged about every time we were in contact. Now I know why he always was busy or out of town, when we wanted to visit him. Well, he was odd...... but this is weird.
We arrived very early this morning, it is still dark. So we haven´t been able to make a proper look yet. But this is a hovel, and the garden is a scrap yard. But though we can´t return, we have to deal with it. So we broke in...... and after a primitive meal (some eggs and bacon) we laughed for a while and said :
- "It has to go. We have to try at least !"
Thank God I have Stella. Not everybody would take this situation like she did, and I probably should quail! Now we try to sleep a couple of hours on the old pallet sofa, and do a proper inspection of our heritage tomorrow in daylight.
Good night...... or rather morning !
Recommended song: Icona Pop - Det måste gå
www.youtube.com/watch?v=6cQtiI5P-Lk
It has to go (Det måste gå)
The road ends, at the mountain top.
This early morning, before the sun goes up.
The day is waiting, feels like time stand still.
Come give me strength, come give me courage.
It has to go
It has to go
The will is there, to try at least!
The sun rises slowly, and heats the soil
which needs all the heat, and a future trust.
Within me, many questions remain
who is burning of longing, after answers.
It has to go
It has to go
The will is there, to try at least!
La la la la .........
The will is there to try, try at least
Just gotta go
it just has to go
The will is there to try, try at least
just have to go
la la la la .......
It has to go
It has to go
Today we safely arrived to our new home, after almost one week on the roads. Our old scooters was struggling but stubborn, without any big mishaps. By the way........ "New home" ? The only thing I can say is, that my granddads' brother was one big compulsive liar ! We thought he owned a Manor, which he bragged about every time we were in contact. Now I know why he always was busy or out of town, when we wanted to visit him. Well, he was odd...... but this is weird.
We arrived very early this morning, it is still dark. So we haven´t been able to make a proper look yet. But this is a hovel, and the garden is a scrap yard. But though we can´t return, we have to deal with it. So we broke in...... and after a primitive meal (some eggs and bacon) we laughed for a while and said :
- "It has to go. We have to try at least !"
Thank God I have Stella. Not everybody would take this situation like she did, and I probably should quail! Now we try to sleep a couple of hours on the old pallet sofa, and do a proper inspection of our heritage tomorrow in daylight.
Good night...... or rather morning !
Recommended song: Icona Pop - Det måste gå
www.youtube.com/watch?v=6cQtiI5P-Lk
It has to go (Det måste gå)
The road ends, at the mountain top.
This early morning, before the sun goes up.
The day is waiting, feels like time stand still.
Come give me strength, come give me courage.
It has to go
It has to go
The will is there, to try at least!
The sun rises slowly, and heats the soil
which needs all the heat, and a future trust.
Within me, many questions remain
who is burning of longing, after answers.
It has to go
It has to go
The will is there, to try at least!
La la la la .........
The will is there to try, try at least
Just gotta go
it just has to go
The will is there to try, try at least
just have to go
la la la la .......
It has to go
It has to go
Yumeko Jabami - The Compulsive Gambler
Full Credits & HD Shots: Persophone.
･ﾟ` 🎀 Featuring: 🎀 `ﾟ･
Avoixs *Rose Skin (Genus & BOM Applier)
Avoixs *Sofie Liner (Genus & BOM Applier)
Avoixs *Store Gift *Sweet Madness Lips (Genus Applier).
CAZIMI *Facial Gems - Heart.
CAZIMI *Ombre Nail Appliers. Available at Fir Vanity Event.
---------------------------- <3
A compulsive singer, the Rattling Cisticola cannot go unnoticed, especially given its habit of singing from a visible perch. There are lots of Cisticola species and identifying any of them can be challenging. I trust I got this one right.
Some of the over 40 pairs of socks that I've knitted in the last two years.
I'm well aware that this definitely is an unreasonable amount of socks to have. They'll last me for the next decade or so, and yet I'm making more. Then again, there are worse things to do than compulsive sock knitting, so why not? At least I'll always have warm feet.
"Hi Doctor Blue," said the man on the phone. "I'm 55 years old and I'm a compulsive masturbator."
"How compulsive?" asked the radio psychologist, a woman in her 60s with more than a little experience with the subject at hand.
"Oh," said the man. "It's pretty bad. Five, six, seven times a day."
"Oh," said the psychologist. "And do you have a job?"
"Yes," said the man.
"Are you successful?"
"Yes," he said, sounding somewhat incredulous. "Believe it or not, I am. But I'm sure I could be a lot more successful if I wasn't... you know. Taking matters into my hands all the time."
"Right," said the psychologist. "Here's what I want you to do. Are you okay financially? Do you have a partner? Does your partner work?
"Yes," said the man. "Yes to all of the above."
"Good," said Doctor Blue. "Here's what I want you to do."
"Hang on," said the man. "I need to get a pen."
"Don't bother," said the doctor. "This is easy to remember."
"Okay," the man said. "Shoot."
"What I want you to do," said the doctor, "is schedule a vacation. Take six or eight or... hell... even 20 weeks away from your job. And do nothing but masturbate... all day, every day."
The man said nothing in response so the doctor said, "Are you still there? Did you hear what I said?"
"Uhh, yes," said the man. "I heard you."
"So?" said the doctor. "Can you do that for me? Seriously. Just try it, alright? And call me back when the time is up, and see how you're feeling."
So the man took the radio psychologist's advice. He cancelled all his work obligations and, for the next six months, did little other than eat, sleep and masturbate. His world grew very small and dark, lit only by his fantasies.
At the end of this period, his penis was rubbed raw. Even with the slipperiest lubes he could find, his skin couldn't handle the friction.
There was friction in his relationship, too. His partner soon grew tired of his "therapy," not to mention having to be the household's sole provider. On top of that, the partner wasn't getting any sex because the man was too busy (and sore from) masturbating.
When the six months was done, the man called back to Doctor Blue and her radio show and reported what had happened. He was not feeling happy. Not at all.
"Good," said the doctor. "See?"
But the man didn't see. "What do you mean?" he asked. "What am I supposed to see?"
"Well," she said. "How do you feel about masturbating now?"
He paused. "It hurts."
"What else?" she prompted.
"Well," he said, "it's ruining my relationship. And, after months of not working, not bringing in any money, I feel like a loser, like a parasite."
"And what do you have to show for your six months off?" she asked.
"Other than a VISA bill the size of Mount Everest? And a bad case of chafing? Not much," he said.
"See?" she replied. "You've learned your lesson."
"Huh?" he said. "I don't follow. What, exactly, do you think I've learned?"
"That anything done to the exclusion of everything else soon loses its attraction."
"But," he said. "I still want to masturbate. Every day. All the time."
"Yeah, well," said the doctor. "That's life. And that's your other lesson from all of this. You are who you are, and you do what you do, and the way you've found to cope with it, all on your own, is probably the best you'll ever do."
The man was silent.
Not because he had nothing to say. In fact, he had a lot to say. He was angry. And let down. And frustrated. And chafed, dammit. But no one in the listening audience got to hear that part, because, as soon as the man had said "I still want to..." his phone line had, courtesy of Doctor Blue's producer, gone dead.
So the man went back to work, and back to his old routines, and that was pretty much that. He got over his anger, and his chafing healed, and he started having sex with his partner again, and masturbating half a dozen times a day again.
One afternoon, as he was rushing to squeeze one more in (or out, as the case may be), he felt his brain go back to a place where it hadn't been in a long time. He found himself, fleetingly, wishing he could just chuck everything else and do nothing but masturbate, forever.
And then he remembered: he had tried that. And six months had been too long. So, surely, forever would not be a good thing. And speaking of things, his apparatus was suddenly limp in his hands. As if it had, finally, lost its allure.
b is for...
b is for obsessive compulsive
Obsessive–compulsive disorder (OCD) is an anxiety disorder characterized by intrusive thoughts that produce uneasiness, apprehension, fear, or worry, by repetitive behaviors aimed at reducing the associated anxiety, or by a combination of such obsessions and compulsions. Symptoms of the disorder include excessive washing or cleaning; repeated checking; extreme hoarding; preoccupation with sexual, violent or religious thoughts; aversion to particular numbers; and nervous rituals, such as opening and closing a door a certain number of times before entering or leaving a room. These symptoms can be alienating and time-consuming, and often cause severe emotional and financial distress. The acts of those who have OCD may appear paranoid and potentially psychotic. However, OCD sufferers generally recognize their obsessions and compulsions as irrational, and may become further distressed by this realization.
OCD is the fourth most common mental disorder, and is diagnosed nearly as often as asthma and diabetes mellitus. In the United States, one in 50 adults suffers from OCD. Obsessive–compulsive disorder affects children and adolescents as well as adults. Roughly one third to one half of adults with OCD report a childhood onset of the disorder, suggesting the continuum of anxiety disorders across the life span.Th e phrase "obsessive–compulsive" has become part of the English lexicon, and is often used in an informal or caricatured manner to describe someone who is excessively meticulous, perfectionistic, absorbed, or otherwise fixated. Although these signs are present in OCD, a person who exhibits them does not necessarily have OCD, and may instead have obsessive–compulsive personality disorder (OCPD), an autism spectrum disorder, or no clinical condition. Multiple psychological and biological factors may be involved in causing obsessive–compulsive syndromes. Standardized rating scales such as Yale–Brown Obsessive Compulsive Scale can be used to assess the severity of OCD symptoms.
I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A COMPULSIVE DRAWER. I would declare war on every blank area left on notebooks, desks, chalk-boards and school walls. My teachers never appreciated this, but I did win recognition among the other kids. But I was independent and pretty much a loner. I rarely communicated verbally, but I never failed to communicate by using my favourite language: images.
Luckily for me, it was my grandparents who practically raised me, instilling in me all the values I retain to this day. But even though my grandparents offered material and emotional support, I felt abandoned. It was a pain that was muted and sometimes battered into submission, but it invariably came to surface. Plus I sensed that there was something else, a much more disturbing truth that lay at the core of the adult world. Being much too young to identify it, it remained a frustrated inarticulate feeling. But there was something clearly evident in my drawings that expressed those feelings. My talent for drawing, my attention to detail, and above all, my grotesque sense of humor were obvious in the drawings.
By the age of eight, whatever I had lodged in the back of my mind came forward in a blurry approximation in art. It was art that rescued me. Many of the drawings had an underlying dark tone. The drawings gave my incoherent inner world some form of expression and substance, however crudely rendered. Grown-ups had a profound effect on my artistic development, but not in a way they would have approved. I began to observe and to judge people, making evaluations about their nature and characters. This, too, found its way in my drawings. One could see from the progression of drawings a groping and developing maturity. It was a discovery and odyssey of self.
A teacher observed one of my drawings, and obviously dismayed, he asked: “What is the matter Victor?”
I answered: “What is the matter with everybody else?”
A conscious awareness of the adult world came into sharper focus: my overall impression of adults was that they were bogus liars and hypocrites, saying not what they thought, but rather what they believed would serve some particular purpose, some hidden agenda. Everybody came armed with two faces. It seemed to me that the world thrived on bullshit, hypocrisy and lies. I noted a desperate whoring after status, an irrational and pathetic desire to “beat the Jones” followed up by saccharine sentimentality by mealy-mouthed charlatans—and all of it showcased to the people they themselves loathed. Lies, backstabbing, deception, two-faces, malice and hypocrisy was the currency of exchange in the adult world. And so I took a profound disliking to most people I came across. I could sense the spiritual emptiness and viciousness within them. I wanted to like and admire people but I rarely came across anyone who was worthy of it. The only noted exceptions were my grandparents.
I HAD TURNED SIXTEEN JUST A FEW MONTHS before the holidays. Christmas brought distant relatives and immediate family together at the Pross household. For me, people were bad enough on their own but it became worse when they assembled together under the same roof. It was on such occasions that fully demonstrated the insanity and phoniness of these people. I would scan the large living room absorbing the adults sitting on the couches and chairs, each one looking anxious and distant. They were tipsy on day-long benders of Bloody Caesars, making efforts to appear jovial. There was a constant display of smiley backslapping and “Merry Christmases” by people who maligned one another the moment backs were turned. There was an unvarying spectacle of petty bickering over trivia and the sudden surfacing of years-long resentments best forgotten. All the forms of human flaws and ugliness to be found in the world---a world which insists on being imperfect—were on display before the eyes of the juvenile artist.
To lighten the mood, somebody put a dance song on. I watched with keen interest as glasses were overturned by dancing feet and the coffee table was moved out of the way to make room. A frenzy of stimulation bubbled in the room and everyone’s voice rose imperceptibly in pitch. As far as I was concerned, it was a circus.
Each relative represented an unsavory social stereotype or archetype of one kind or another. They were caricatures. From the town’s busy body gossip-monger tyrant--to the dour spinster forever spouting on about “God’s wrath”--to the town’s fast-talking used car salesman who dressed like a big city pimp---to every other stereotype imaginable. It was all there. This was no less true when it came to Uncle Bernard, better known as “Bernie.” Sitting near the Christmas tree, I was observing him closely. He was the jet-set wannabe playboy type. He sported a dyed perm that looked as if had come straight off a Styrofoam head from 1973. Assuming himself a lady-killer, he actually had all the charm of a toupee made of straw dipped in black ink. With each attempt at a pickup he was invariably shot down. “Lesbian!” he would bellow at women who rejected him.
Sitting next to Bernie was my mother, Terry. She was immersed in conversation, laughing with a forced hilarity, her drink spilling over. There was something that troubled me about my mother. She was a woman who was so utterly self-absorbed, forever preoccupied with what others thought. My mother’s sense of personal value was crucially dependent on the image of herself as a glamorous beauty. At the age of thirty-eight, she was wont to ask for reassurances of her looks. “Do you think I have nice legs? I use to be a Go-Go dance, you know?” and “When was the last time you saw a woman as gorgeous as me—and at my age?” With each passing year she began to perceive every wrinkle on her face as a metaphysical menace. Taking aging as a threat to her identity, she plunged into a series of sexual relationships with men fifteen years her junior demanding fresh admiration to assuage her hollowness.
My mother’s constant need for validation annoyed me. I was nevertheless fascinated with human behavior. What I perceived in my mother was a definite narcissism, only I didn’t have the word for it at the age of sixteen. Spurred by mother’s conceit, I decided to try an experiment. I played upon her vanity by offering her a lavish compliment, just to see her reaction. My motive wasn’t flattery for flattery’s sake, it was a psychological experiment.
I tapped my mother on the shoulder, interrupting her conversation.
“Mom?”
My mother turned to me, clearly annoyed, her expression a fusion of wonder and irritation.
“Victor dear, can’t you see I’m talking to this nice gentleman?”
“But mom, I need to tell you something.”
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
“I just wanted to say that…you look just like Marilyn Monroe.”
My mother took a deep intake of breathe. She clapped her hands in appreciation and snuggled her darling son into her arms. “Did you hear that?” she demanded of the guests. The room fell to a hushed silence. “What is it, Terry?” asked a guest. “My boy said I look like Marilyn Monroe. That’s my boy! Oh, he knows a good looking chick when he sees one!” My mother then let out an exuberant laugh, which itself was enough to draw attention. After a few more brandy-laced eggnogs, my mother became more of an embarrassment. She made damn well sure to tell new arrivals at the party what her son had said about her. It was a compliment that was warmly recalled by her for years to come. I had always regretted my causal flattery.
I appreciated the art of caricature more so than ever before. I enjoyed the spectacle of observing the reaction of anyone I nailed in a drawing. When people observed a grotesque drawing I had rendered of them—in dead-on accuracy---they would dissolve in self-consciousness. This had a clinical kind of fascination to me. Although one can be disconcerted at witnessing an open incision, I got some amazing glimpses of their guts. What came out of it was a deeply ingrained self-doubt. I knew my art had the power to reach people. “You are a sick guy, Pross,” said one of my displeased subjects. “How is it that I’m sick,” I responded, amazed by this sudden psychological evaluation. “The drawing portrays how you are—not me.”
Observing my mania for drawing, my grandfather decided to have a heart-to-heart chat with me. He entered my room as I sat at my desk, which was littered with sketchpads of drawings and half-ass watercolors.
Grandfather picked up a sketch pad flipping through it. “You have a real talent there, my boy,” he said. A firm hand rested on my shoulder. “It would be a shame if that went to waste”
I smiled and lowered my head.
“There are a lot of people who always dump on me for drawing, granddaddy.”
He smiled. “When it comes to insults, consider the source---and also try to consider what you think may be their motivation.”
My grandfather put an encouraging arm around me, playfully mussing up my hair.
He pulled up a nearby chair and sat down next to me.
“Now listen to me,” he said with a pinch of gravity, “you have a talent, son—a very evident and rare talent, but you can’t expect it to do all the work for you. You have to hone and develop that talent. If you want to be an artist, it takes practice, practice, practice. It is about hard work. It’s not enough to have talent alone. You need to have a hunger. You understand?”
I smiled. “I need to be a hungry artist?”
“I’m serious, son.”
“I know. So am I”
“Good. That’s right, a hungry artist.”
“I am. It’s like a compulsion. I feel so good when I’m drawing. It lifts me up. I need to express what I have going on inside of me. I suppose that is a hunger.”
I paused for a moment. My grandfather looked at me, his clear blue eyes beaming. His smile conveyed immense admiration…and hope. “I love you, grandson.”
I couldn’t express in words the feeling that I felt so abundantly. The love and admiration I felt for this man was great, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him so for some reason. And so I simply smiled and look downward, hoping that this motion expressed what should have said with words.
Not everyone responded with agitation to the drawings of this teenage caricature artist. Sam Ferguson, the owner of the diner I frequented at the time, was blessed with a robust sense of humor. As he observed one of my renderings, he laughed with his whole body, his heavy-set frame shook like a bowl of Jell-O resting on the clothes dryer in final spin. “You are a crazy son of a bitch!” Gus hollowed. “How do you think of this stuff?” In the drawing, I had Gus lurched over a hot stove stirring the day’s soup special with beads of sweat dripping into the pot. In the background, one can see an unsuspecting customer slurping the broth, bellowing, ‘Gus, I love the extra flavor you added!’
“Come here, my boy,” Gus said, sliding a hamburger and fries over to me. “Here’s your payment for a job well done.”
“You’re paying me for that drawing…by feeding me?”
Gus looked astonished that I was astonished. “Of course! A man should be paid for his work. That drawing is hanging on my wall, and it gives me a great deal of pleasure.”
“It does.”
“You are very talented. Hey, I want to frame it and hang it up on my office wall. How much do you want for it?”
“You just paid me,” I answered, biting into the hamburger.
“No, not that, that’s a token payment, I’m talking about really paying you. That is a work of art we’re talking about!”
“I don’t know…”
“Here,” Gus said, taking my hand and slipping a hundred dollar bill into it.
“Hey man, are you serious—a hundred bucks!”
“Too little?”
“No, this is cool. Thanks Gus!”
“One day you are going to be a famous artist. People will be paying you a lot more than a measly hundred bucks. Hey, don’t think that I’m cheating you…I’m not a rich guy.”
“Come on, Gus, I know that. This is so cool, man. If only my grandfather could see this.”
I realized that I could temper my art with light-hearted humor, the gentle good wit that my grandfather imparted in me—along with the acerbic wit characteristic of Barry McConnell. It was here that this artist punk learned that caricature has both a dark and light face to it. I also learned that the caricatures I drew, and the people who inspired them, were not confined to the community where I lived. They circled the globe. It was to the wider culture that my focus turned. I had so much to learn and so much to express.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
**above photo is of my mother--Terry, my oldest brother--Robert, and Kevin (with his arm around me).
Bibliomania is an obsessive–compulsive disorder involving the collecting or hoarding of books to the point where social relations or health are damaged. One of several psychological disorders associated with books, bibliomania is characterized by the collecting of books which have no use to the collector nor any great intrinsic value to a genuine book collector. The purchase of multiple copies of the same book and edition and the accumulation of books beyond possible capacity of use or enjoyment are frequent symptoms of bibliomania.
you can read all the book titles HERE
leave notes on your favorties :)
this is hopefully a little bit of a lighter subject than yesterdays. i dont have a lot of time, but this ones pretty self explanatory...
i guess if you happen to know someone with bibliomania, get help...?
it cant be good.
day 122
Obsessive -compulsive disorder.
The time in my head, the time above me, the time suffocating me, the time does not take off, are there many times or only one?
I don't really suffer from this disorder, however I do consider that I think obsessively although not compulsively, especially people's attitudes, I analyze them in such a meticulous way that it seems obsessive to me, not only that, time is something that seems that it does obsess me, I have always believed that there is no time for anything, never. Although I try to do everything in an orderly and organized way. And in general I think that the time one has to live is not enough for anything and I constantly feel very old, always at the end of my life. Time, that which is not supposed to exist, always marks my worst hopelessness.
dermatillomania/compulsive skin picking
this is really weird for me to post but okay
i usually photoshop out these scars so people don't get wrong ideas
this is what i look like, no makeup, no airbrushing
(okay maybe a little eyeliner from the night before)
but, here you have it.
judge me as you will.
Compulsive Pontifications.
Principi estremi approfondimenti ulteriori determinazioni nozioni sollecitare questioni differenze punti momenti di fuga apparente coscienza,
forces conduites universels moyens de duplication termes antithèse doutes distinctions alternances supposées opposés termes intermédiaires monde immédiat,
übersinnliche reine Dunkelheit frühere Vorstellungen in der Tat Wahrheiten alternative Objekte Reflexionen Unterschiede verbunden sinnliches Bewusstsein,
közvetlen érzékel bizonyos vágyakat független különbségek negatív kapcsolatok elégedettség kettős jelentőséget igénylő elsődleges célokat tapasztal,
Summa haec inaequalitas meditationes confrontationibus perficiatur anima animet ex interiori contingere posset voces exteriores,
οι παρατηρήσεις λειτουργούν συνειδητή δραστηριότητα του περιεχομένου της πραγματικής κατηγορίας πλήρους λάθους επαναδημιουργίες εκρήξεων φύση,
逆に変更前の極最高の満足は世界の軽蔑の罰の違いを作成しました無常のアンチテーゼは独立を決定しました.
Steve.D.Hammond.
When I’ve had some spare time, I’ve been working my way through the 12 DVD of Cornish photographs from this summer (I'm now up to 8). And along the way I have been selecting the ones that I feel are worthy of displaying. But there have been many that I'm not sure about and I’ve been sitting on this one in particular. Its been in my to do list for some time now, but I have mixed feelings about it.
On the positive side I love the light, I love the setting sun, and I love the leading curving lines taking you into the distance. But I’m not keen on the sea (I wished I’d taken a longer exposure to smooth out the distance) and I’m not keen on the composition of the rock to the right. I feel it’s too heavily balanced to the right and it desperately needs something on the left to balance it out. I did take a landscape shot of the same scene, but the bottom felt lost to me and I wanted to keep the curving leading lines.
The evening I took this Cathy and the kids were in the pub about half a mile behind me and I arrived here not totally sure as to the tide. It had gone quite far out but was in a unamenable place for me to find a composition that I liked. This is about the best I could come up with, but when I was there, I felt very frustrated. I knew that it was a great sunset, but I couldn’t find a more balanced composition, in the ten minutes or so I had to take it before the sun went down.
Funny this sunset thing, in mid summer because of the angle of the sun’s trajectory, you don’t have much time before it quickly disappears down below the horizon. In winter the light stays good for much longer because the sun is hitting the horizon at a much lower angle to the 90d it does in mid summer. I suppose you have the advantage of warm weather and late sunsets eh, can’t have it all (o:
Ho yes if any of you out there know northern France, we are looking at going there this summer (instead of Cornwall which is our usual haunt) id very much appreciate some inside knowledge of places to stay (small simple campsites near the beach, without too many people on them and definitely no club house). We have very simple needs and mine are even simpler. Ho yes the beach has to be west facing, as I'm not too good in the mornings in mid summer (o:
P,S. One of my images has just been seen on channel fours picture this. ‘Cracking stuff Grommet!’, or should I say ‘Sean’
I could not help it . . .
I was constantly stopping when I spotted an interesting photo opportunity.
My passenger was annoyed.
This photo was taken by an Asahi Pentax 6 X 7 medium format film camera and Super-Multi-Coated Takumar/6X7 1:4.5/75mm lens with a Zenza Bronica 82mm L-1A filter using Fuji 160NS [220] film, the negative scanned by an Epson Perfection V600 and digitally rendered with Photoshop.
compulsive blossom shots because I can't help myself
shot on cinestill 800t 120 film double exposure with holga
I have a deep need to be creative.
It’s a yearning, a visceral compulsion, a continual striving desire towards the creative fix that drives my very core. I’m sorry to be so dramatic, but there is something VERY deep in me that need that creative fix. It feels evolutionary, like without it I would gradually weaken and pass into history. When in its grasp, I feel totally in the moment, my perception changes, time becomes transient and I become me! It’s hard to explain, but easy to be. This isn’t about others; it’s about my own learning, expression, feelings and memories. These feelings can be stimulated by others, by their work, by nature, but they always reflect something developmental, something subconsciously needed.
Have you ever had such a feeling? Have you ever felt everything just clicks? Have you ever felt that things feel effortless and you enter into a kind of meditative creative state? To put flesh on the bones of my vague ramblings, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi has given it a name, the flow state. It’s a great feeling when it happens, but as addictive as any drug. May you find it sometime soon!
I know these corners, I know these streets.
Curbside prophets, they're yellin' at me.
He can save my soul for a drink & a dollar.
Yeah, he's yellin' about my tattoos,
We all live with the scars we choose.
They might hurt like hell,
but they all make us stronger.
Low key boring day. Haven't done much but I did catch up on the news. And danced around the house. Oh and watched episodes of the Office and Family Guy online. Yeah, I'm gonna miss this in about a month when I return to being high-strung, anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, nerdy Kristin for school.
And I posted a new vlog HERE
Hope you all are doing well today!
Oh and look, I received another hateful comment on YouTube:
"People choose sin just as they choose to be gay for whatever reason. Our future depends on our children, and society cannot accept gay marriage or adoption,unless we all want to burn in hell.
RIGGGHT. And ironically, that came from someone with the screenname "sexyrebel666" WELL, HERE'S A BIG FUCK YOU TO SEXYREBEL666. GO CHOKE ON YOUR IGNORANCE.
Explored
Trichotillomania: obsessive-compulsive disorder. There are different forms. In general: Pulling out ones own hair. So many that there are big bald spaces on the head, or having no eyebrows.
I was experimenting with the grey hair and trying how to weave it in the spiral. While I was doing this one, I thought of H., who is long gone. She suffered from a form of Trichotillomania in combination with other disorders.
Part of: "Circular Weaving in Arachne`s Defence - Spiralen im Kreis weben für ἀράχνη - Rehabilitierung, Plädoyer,..." // "Schmuck Objekte weben weaving jewellery Tapestry to Wear Tapisserie zum Anziehen - upcycling recycling"
DMC-G2 - P1820358 - 2014-07-22
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, OCD, is an anxiety disorder and is characterized by recurrent, unwanted thoughts (obsessions) and/or repetitive behaviors (compulsions). Repetitive behaviors such as handwashing, counting, checking, or cleaning are often performed with the hope of preventing obsessive thoughts or making them go away. Performing these so-called "rituals," however, provides only temporary relief, and not performing them markedly increases anxiety.
OCD is the fourth most common mental disorder and is often misdiagnosed. In the United States, one in 50 adults has OCD. The phrase "obsessive-compulsive" has become part of the English lexicon, and is often used in an informal or caricatured manner to describe someone who is meticulous, perfectionistic, absorbed in a cause, or otherwise fixated on something or someone. Although these signs are often present in OCD, a person who exhibits them does not necessarily have OCD, and may instead have obsessive–compulsive personality disorder (OCPD), an autism spectrum disorder or some other condition.
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This one really means alot to me personally. My mom has OCD. I think really it goes back to the fact that she has Romberg's disease. One of the effects of this is a noticable disfiguration of the face. I think the mental aspect of the OCD goes back to the need of "perfection" so to say in her life. Not only is she a perfectionist, but if her environment is out of order she has kind of panic attacks and her personality is totally crazy all over the place until its fixed.
This picture mainly just focouses on the need for perfection. Facial in this case, which means alot to me as i already said.This is such a crap edit im sorry. :( it scares me to be perfectly honest.
edit: i replaced this in an attempt to get rid of the horrid red-eyes i had here. i edied it on the laptop so it looked different there i guess =/
i still look sickly from the thumbnail :(