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From the back cover:
His Lawyer Said: "Our society is on trial today as well as Frank Crowley . . ." Why?
The District Attorney Said: "The mistake Crowley made was that he taught a woman to hate . . ."
The Judge Said: "If the evidence is true, what does it mean?"
The Psychiatrist Said: "I think the boy is a moral imbecile . . . but I feel that he killed without the slightest premeditation."
What made this youth with a spoiled child's face a wanton killer, one who killed without conscience or remorse, killed in rage against a world he could neither understand nor accept?
BOX DATE: 1996
MANUFACTURER: Mattel
VARIATIONS: Blonde; African American; brunette
BODY TYPE: 1966; molded B print panties; Twist 'n Turn waist; bent arms; ring hole; bend & snap knees
HEAD MOLD: 1976 "Superstar"; pierced ears
PERSONAL FUN FACT: Believe it or not, one of my first brand new childhood Barbies was the blonde Pet Doctor on the far left of this photo. It's hard to believe that I've had her for most of my life. I got this doll when I was five or six years old, and I still vaguely remember the day when I picked her out. I believe I saved up my allowance money for "Christine," as I dubbed her. I was kind of obsessed with that name, or ones like it, such as "Christina." When I was very small, I was particularly drawn to doctor and animal themed dolls. It makes sense, what with the fact that I was always such an animal person--it was easier to get along with pets than people. I also liked the idea of "caring" for animals or people, which is probably how my obsession for doctor type dolls began. Anyways, Pet Doctor was a staple in our doll family. She was not only the town vet, but also the person doctor too. I used her original vet supplies, paired with my Pretty Pet Parlor, and also my Baby Care Center. Her vet ensemble also dualed as her regular doctor gear. Colleen also took a bit of a shine to Pet Doctor. I recall that we'd trade off on who played her, especially in cases where she was a background character. One of my most vivid memories of this doll is the time I took her on vacation with the family. Mom and Dad took us to New Jersey one summer to go to Six Flags and also a few other places. We were allowed to take one doll each, so I gunned for Pet Doctor, who was presumably my newest at the time. I had stolen a Barbie sized comb around that time frame from a friend's house. I recall that the entire vacation, the stolen comb burned in the back of my mind, and stayed inside my yellow backpack with Pet Doctor for the duration of the trip. I ended up confessing to my crime when we got home, to ease the guilt of my conscience. Even though Pet Doctor had little to do with this petty larceny, I still think of it each time I look at her. As time wore on, Christine did not keep her good looks. She lost a ton of hair back in the day, as I was the sort to compulsively brush my dolls' hair. So she was half bald by the time I was seven or eight. She also lost much of her stuff along the way, and her original outfit became very shabby and grossly stained. But as an adult collector, I was able to remedy these problems. I found her a much better ensemble, and I partially rerooted all her empty hair plugs to restore her luscious tresses!
Since Christine was so shabby even when I was young, it was only natural that I'd jump at the chance to get a second. I found the doll in the middle sometime in the early 2000s. She was at the local flea market, and was still wearing her original outfit. For some reason, my memory was muddled over the years, and I thought I got her stuffed back inside her original box with some accessories. But it turns out that couldn't be the case. I must have purchased her loosely by herself. We dubbed this doll "Jessica," and luckily she maintained her beauty and condition over the years. By the time she joined the family, both Colleen and I were much better at caring for our dolls. She "replaced" Christine in some ways, but we saw them as separate people. Although I was the one who bought this doll, I'd say that Colleen played with her far more. She was enchanted by Jessica's obvious beauty. Unlike Christine, she has a stunningly perfect face (Christine is actually rather wonky). I'm not sure exactly what role Jessica always played, but sometimes she replaced Becky as the "wheelchair ridden" doll. Colleen was obsessed with Becky's wheels, so they were always in use no doubt. However, as adult collectors, it came out that Jessica was actually Becky's girlfriend who in fact was not in a wheelchair. It was a scenario that Colleen must have had brewing in her head for years, but it didn't have the chance to materialize until we were older. It all made sense to me though, when I reflect on my childhood. Whenever Jessica was Becky's "friend," she always had better chemistry with her than any of Becky's male suitors!
Since Jessica had maintained her glory even decades later, we didn't really "need" another doppelganger. But of course, I'm not want to cast out any doll in need. I got this third lady, on the far right, in 2016. She was actually a gift of sorts. That summer, our friend Lisa said we could have what remained of her childhood dolls. We spent a little while scrounging through the basement and the attic space above her garage, on the quest for dolls. It seemed as though the dolls themselves all went missing. We were only able to find a baggy with clothing and accessories. I admit I was devastated that the dolls themselves went rogue. I played with so many of them as a little girl, when I was over Lisa's house. However, in the attic space above the garage, we found Pet Doctor Barbie all by herself. She still looked pristine, as if she'd never been played with. I'm very fond of this doll since she was a generous gift, and the lone survivor of her former doll clan. Colleen and I both thought it would be fitting to name her "Lisa" after our friend!
Salisbury Cathedral's East Chapel Windows - The Gabriel Loire Window for Prisoners of Conscience in the Trinity Chapel.
The pointed Gothic lancets, as the tall and somewhat narrow windows are called, together constitute the cathedral's ''Prisoners of Conscience Window.'' The panels depict both 20th-century prisoners of conscience and the trial and crucifixion of Jesus, who is represented as a first-century prisoner of conscience. To the Very Rev. Sydney H. Evans, Dean of the Cathedral, who commissioned the windows and supervised their installation, they represent, ''the call of a man to a higher power, to the universal, uttered in a terrible moment of doubt and loneliness.''
“The human voice can never reach the distance that is covered by the still voice of conscience.” - Mahatma Gandhi.
Another attempt at self-portrait photography.
Better viewed on Black.
Thank you for your visit. Your comments are welcome.
Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission © All rights reserved!
Strobist Info: Umbrella stobe in front of subject, Nikon SB800 from the rear externally fired. Flash power adjusted using trial and error.
Remembering Black Conscience Day, Valor Negro (Negro Value), a historic reflection of the Negro’s plight for freedom and justice, created and performed by the kids in our programme.
I've probably mentioned it before, but I love these little statues around the partner's statue in both Disneyland and the Magic Kingdom. Not for any particular reason other than I think they're pretty cute.
Not sure if I should've reversed this, as in have Pinocchio in focus? Because he does maybe look a little creepy looming the background like that? Ah well.
Disneyland Park
I discovered this pattern last night, sipping a cup of coffee :-)
descubrí este patrón la noche anterior mientras tomaba una taza de café
Design and fold
David Martinez
Mayo - 2012
This woman was one of nearly 1,500 people who gathered in Parliament Square on 6 September 2025 for a silent act of civil disobedience. They were protesting the UK government's decision to proscribe the direct-action group Palestine Action as a terrorist organisation.
By holding a sign declaring support for the group, she was knowingly breaking the law and risking a lengthy prison sentnce under the Terrorism Act. Her determined expression reflects the protest's solemn mood, driven by the catastrophic humanitarian crisis in Gaza.
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Protest and the Price of Dissent: Palestine Action and the Criminalisation of Conscience
Parliament Square on Saturday, 6 September 2025 was a scene of quiet, almost solemn defiance. The air, usually thick with the noise of London traffic and crowds of tourists, was instead filled with a palpable tension, a shared gravity that emanated from the quiet determination of hundreds of protesters, many of them over 60 years old, some sitting on steps or stools and others lying on the grass.
They held not professionally printed banners, but handwritten cardboard signs, their messages stark against the historic grandeur of their surroundings. This was not a march of chants and slogans, but a silent vigil of civil disobedience, a deliberate and calculated act of defiance against the state.
On that day, my task was to photograph the protest against the proscription of the direct-action group Palestine Action. While not always agreeing entirely with the group’s methods, I could not help but be struck by the profound dedication etched on the faces of the individual protesters.
As they sat in silence, contemplating both the horrific gravity of the situation in Gaza and the enormity of the personal risk they were taking — courting arrest under terror laws for holding a simple placard — their expressions took on a quality not dissimilar to what war photographers once called the “thousand-yard stare.” It was a look of weary but deep and determined resolve, a silent testament to their readiness to face life-changing prosecution in the name of a principle.
This scene poses a profound and unsettling question for modern Britain. How did the United Kingdom, a nation that prides itself on its democratic traditions and the right to protest, arrive at a point where hundreds of its citizens — clergy, doctors, veterans, and the elderly — could be arrested under counter-terrorism legislation for an act of silent, peaceful protest?
The events of that September afternoon were the culmination of a complex and contentious series of developments, but their significance extends far beyond a single organisation or demonstration. The proscription of Palestine Action has become a critical juncture in the nation’s relationship with dissent, a test of the elasticity of free expression, and a stark examination of its obligations under international law in the face of Israel deliberately engineering a catastrophic humanitarian crisis in Gaza.
To understand what is at stake, one must unravel the threads that led to that moment: the identity of the movement, the state’s legal machinery of proscription, the confrontation in Parliament Square, and the political context that compelled so many to risk their liberty.
Direct Action and the State’s Response
Palestine Action, established in 2020, has never hidden its approach. Unlike traditional lobbying groups, it rejected appeals to political elites in favour of disrupting the physical infrastructure of complicity: factories producing parts for Israeli weapons systems, offices of arms manufacturers, and — eventually — military installations themselves.
Its tactics, while non-violent, were disruptive and confrontational. Red paint sprayed across buildings to symbolise blood, occupations that halted production, chains and locks on factory gates. For supporters, these were acts of conscience against a system enabling atrocities in Gaza. For the state, they were criminal disruptions of commerce.
That clash escalated steadily. In Oldham, a persistent campaign against Elbit Systems, a key manufacturer in the Israeli arms supply chain, culminated in the company abandoning its Ferranti site. Later actions targeted suppliers for F-35 fighter jets and other arms manufacturers. These were no random acts of mindless vandalism but part of a deliberate strategy: to impose costs high enough that complicity in Israel’s war effort would become unsustainable.
The decisive rupture came in June 2025, when activists infiltrated RAF Brize Norton, Britain’s largest airbase, and sprayed red paint into the engines of refuelling aircraft linked to operations over Gaza. For the activists, it was a desperate attempt to interrupt a supply chain of surveillance and logistical support to a state commiting genocide. For the government, it crossed a line: military assets had been attacked. Within days, the Home Secretary announced Palestine Action would be proscribed as a terrorist organisation.
Proscription and the Expansion of “Terrorism”
Here lies the heart of the controversy. The Terrorism Act 2000 defines terrorism with unusual breadth, encompassing not only threats to life but also “serious damage to property” carried out for political or ideological aims. In this capacious definition, breaking a factory window or disabling a machine can be legally assimilated to mass murder.
By invoking this law, the government placed Palestine Action on the same legal footing as al-Qaeda or ISIS. Supporting it — even symbolically — became a serious offence.
Since July 2025, merely expressing support for the organization can carry a maximum prison sentence of 14 years.
This is based on Section 12 of the Terrorism Act 2000. The specific offense is "recklessly expressing support for a proscribed organisation". However, according to Section 13 of the Act, a lower-level offence for actions like displaying hand held placards in support of a proscribed group carries a maximum sentence of six months imprisonment or a fine of five thousand pounds or both.
Civil liberties groups and human rights bodies have denounced the proscription move as disproportionate. Their concern was not primarily whether Palestine Action’s tactics might violate existing criminal law. One might reasonably argue that they did unless they might sometimes be justified in the name of preventing a greater crime.
But reframing those actions as “terrorism” represented a dangerous category error. As many pointed out, terrorism has historically referred to violence against civilians. Expanding it to cover property damage risks draining the term of meaning. Worse, it arms the state with a stigma so powerful that it can delegitimise entire political positions without debate.
The implications go further. Proscription does not simply criminalise acts. It criminalises expressions of allegiance, conscience and even speech. To say “I support Palestine Action” is no longer an opinion but technically a serious crime. The state has moved from punishing deeds to punishing expressions of solidarity — a move with chilling consequences for democratic life.
Parliament Square: Civil Disobedience on TrialIt was this transformation that brought nearly 1,500 people into Parliament Square on 6 September. They knew what awaited them. Organisers announced in advance that protesters would hold signs reading: “I oppose genocide. I support Palestine Action.” In doing so, they openly declared their intent to break the law.
The crowd was strikingly diverse. Retired doctors, clergy, war veterans, even an 83-year-old Anglican priest. Disabled activists came in wheelchairs; descendants of Holocaust survivors stood beside young students. This was not a hardened cadre of militants but a cross-section of society, many of whom had never before faced arrest.
At precisely 1 pm, the protesters all sat or lay down silently, cardboard signs raised. There was no chanting, no aggression — only a quiet insistence that they would not accept the criminalisation of conscience.
The police response was equally predictable. Hundreds of officers moved systematically through the crowd, arresting anyone displaying a sign. By the end of the day, nearly 900 people were detained under counter-terrorism law. It was one of the largest mass arrests in modern British history.
Official statements later alleged police were met with violence — officers punched, spat on, objects thrown. Yet independent observers, including Amnesty International, contradicted this. They reported a peaceful assembly disrupted by aggressive policing: batons drawn, protesters shoved, some bloodied.
www.amnesty.org/zh-hans/documents/eur45/0273/2025/en/
Video footage supported at least some of Amnesty's report.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZQGFrqCf5U&t=1283s
The two narratives were irreconcilable, but only one carried the weight and authority of the state.
The entire event unfolded as political theatre. The government proscribed a group, thereby creating a new crime. Protesters, convinced the law was unjust, announced their intent to commit that crime peacefully. The police, forewarned, staged a vast operation. Each side acted out its script. The spectacle allowed the state to present itself as defending order against extremism — while in reality silencing dissent.
The Humanitarian Context: Why Protesters Risked All
To see the Parliament Square protest as a parochial dispute over free speech is to miss its driving force. The demonstrators were not there merely to defend abstract principles. They were responding to what they, and a growing body of international experts, describe as a genocide in Gaza.
By September 2025, Gaza had descended into almost total collapse. Over 63,000 Palestinians had been killed, the majority of them women and children. More than 150,000 had been injured, many maimed for life. Entire neighbourhoods had been flattened. Famine was confirmed in August, with Israel continuing to impose and even tighten deliberate restrictions on food, water, and fuel, a strategy condemned by human rights groups as a major war crime. Hospitals lay in ruins. Ninety percent of the population had been displaced.
It is in this context that the term genocide has been applied. Legal scholars point not only to mass killings but also to the deliberate infliction of life-destroying conditions, accompanied by rhetoric from Israeli officials dehumanising Palestinians as “human animals.” In September 2025, the International Association of Genocide Scholars declared that Israel’s actions met the legal definition of genocide.
www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cde3eyzdr63o
Major NGOs, UN experts, and even Israeli human rights groups such as B’Tselem echoed that conclusion.
For the protesters, then, the question was not abstract but immediate: faced with what they saw as a genocide, could they in good conscience remain silent while their own government criminalised resistance to it? Their answer was to risk arrest, their placards making the moral connection explicit: opposing genocide meant supporting those who sought to stop it.
The Price of Dissent
The mass arrests in Parliament Square were not an isolated incident of law enforcement. They were the product of a broader trajectory: escalating tactics by a direct-action movement, a humanitarian catastrophe abroad, and a government determined to suppress dissent at home through the bluntest of instruments.
The official line insists that Palestine Action’s campaign constituted terrorism and thus warranted proscription. On this view, the arrests were simple enforcement of the law. Yet this account obscures the deeper reality: a precedent in which the state redefined non-lethal protest as terrorism, shifting from punishing actions to criminalising expressions of solidarity.
The cost is profound. Once speech and conscience themselves become suspect, dissent is no longer tolerated but pathologised. The chilling effect is already evident: individuals weigh not just whether to join a protest, but whether uttering support might expose them to years in prison. Terror laws, originally justified as a shield against mass violence, are recast as tools of political management.
The protesters understood this. That “thousand-yard stare” captured in their faces was not only the weight of potential arrest, but the knowledge of Gaza’s devastation, the famine and rubble, the deaths mounting daily. It was also the recognition that their own government had chosen to silence them rather than address its complicity.
In a functioning democracy, the question is not why citizens risk arrest for holding a handwritten cardboard sign. It is why a state finds it necessary to treat that act as a terror offence. The answer reveals a narrowing of democratic space, where conscience itself is deemed subversive. And that narrowing, history teaches, carries consequences not just for those arrested, but for the society that allows it.
Even though we may be reduced to the condition of an insignificant water drop, we shall not forget that an ocean is made of a multitude of water drops. Even in a tormented ocean of black waters, be the turquoise drop, the one which will radiate beauty and consciousness through the darkness.
Nous ne serons toujours qu'une insignifiante goutte d'eau, mais n'oublions pas qu'un océan est fait d'une multitude de gouttes d'eau. Même dans un océan noir, soyez la goutte d'eau turquoise, celle qui fera briller la conscience et la beauté dans l'obscurité.
BELIEVE IN MERMAIDS
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I've wrestled with my conscience and declared the bout a draw. I've examined each and every avenue of perception and contemplation with time on my side and a willingness to seek out some pearl of wisdom that I might take with me to the grave. But all this pathetic brain of mine can muster is an awe for Mother nature's brilliance and bounty as those tidal surges have me ever more drenched and clinging onto my last breath, and the realisation that perhaps this is not such a bad day to die.
The thin tubular aluminium legs of my portable fishing chair flex and move under the weight of the water, sinking ever deeper into the soft velvety sand with each successive wave as I flinch under the freezing cold pain of the water now making unwarranted advances upon my ill prepared flesh. I want to cry but won't allow myself such wasteful and unproductive indulgence as I struggle to break free my limbs from the layers of tape that bind me callously to the skimpy chair, itself firmly affixed to the far end of the wooden groyne that for decades many has occupied these sea defences. Despite my best intentions I must concede the simple fact that a mortal of the merest form I am, no God nor king of legend past and bold with powers to halt the progress of the devilish sea. All the same, old Canute's earnest belief in his abilities wouldn't come a miss right now.
The morning breeze stiffens and billows in, buffeting my face along with salty sea spray and foam that floats from the shoreline, stinging my eyes and scalding my parched lips as my brain attempts to calculate and recalibrate a world of mayhem and possibility. And like a mirage in a barren desert land, from time to time there I am, believing that I might actually find salvation amidst the blissful chaos. Where I think there is a sign of movement between tethered hands and unforgiving tape, reality slaps me down as I fail once more to make any ground, the water ever faster, ever deeper as it pools around my submerged feet which are anchored beneath the sand and buried to a point several inches above my ankles, sending an icy chill up and down my spine. I know that he is watching me from a short distance away, I can feel his cold eyes burning into the back of my neck, his contemptuous stare though he'll naturally understand if I don't turn around and give him the satisfaction of the credit he craves. All the same, I wish I could turn and flash him a toothy smile as an 'up yours, pal' salvo across his decks. A three sixty revolving neck like a scene from 'The Exorcist' would be a neat trick right now.
My right eye is partially closed, the swelling smarting like a son of a bitch and congealed blood now dry and crusty around my face where he broke the skin under the impact with fists and wedding ring. Ah yes, that ring. How apt and intrinsically appropriate. Worn out of some sense of dominance and pride I would guess, a mark of allegiance, of ownership in his eyes, to complete my final humiliation and stamp his angry condemnation of my carnal actions and the consequences that have arisen from them. Only a fool such as I could choose to make an enemy of a violent husband with psychopathic tendencies, and a passion for the intricate details of violence drawn from years of watching American gangster movies. Why couldn't he have been a 'philatelist, then the worst fate that might have befallen me was in being licked to death! Or a lepidopterist.... hmm on second thoughts he'd probably have dried me to a husk and pinned me in a glass cabinet with a giant pin through my chest!
This stretch of coastline lies secluded and unmolested by tourist eyes, towards the outer reaches of the angry shoreline, where ageing wooden groynes pepper the beach and stand guard over my demise like legions of soldiers lined up for the fight. Positioned by the first breaker with three more behind me closer to the sea wall, my eyes survey the degradation and algae adorning the wooden form which tells me that soon I shall taste the salt water and breathe no longer. Everything so meticulously planned, he chose the location so well as into his violent trap I so foolishly wandered. The story of my life one could say, the nearly man, neither Prince nor King of the facets of my life, a head filled with romantic notions and a heart worn so carelessly on my soaking wet sleeves. Romance, you've gotta love it. Look where it got me this time. The sea water rises steadily, my waste now submerged and all attempts to free the legs of the chair thwarted by his use of tent pegs bent over and pinned into the core of the sand. He thought of everything, the cold and calculating bastard! My heart beat races like a charging stallion with every new pulsing surge of water, and perhaps rather curiously, I find myself with the urge to laugh out loud, uncontrollably at the top of my lungs. Am I facing madness as I stare death in the eye? I guess I never got around to reading the book on my bedroom cabinet, 'Etiquette when facing death at the hands of a mad thing'.
My nose is broken, I'm almost certain of the fact as I can hear the fragments moving rather unsettlingly against each other as I breath through the constricted passageway of my blood filled nostrils, mouth agape as I suck in great gulps of air and breath hard as the liquid reaches my chest. It's a suitably impressive show that Mother nature puts on just for me in my final hour, with the golden sand slowly disappearing beneath the advancing crests of the foamy waves, and seagulls overhead seeming to stare down and mock my sad plight as they hover motionless in the breeze above me. Unlike those ancient and fascinating Groynes, for this mere mortal, just one early morning tide is all that is needed to erase me, snuff me out from the existence enjoyed, the future I had planned. I feel almost cheated somehow, relishing the prospect of going out in style at the very least, and yet here I am giving up the fight without so much as a whimper.
Back at the car, Susan's carcass will be rapidly cooling by now. He'll have a hell of a job to hide all evidence of her murder, doesn't he realize that scrubbing the black velvet boot carpet of all traces of blood and bodily fluids will not fool the forensic squad once they get their filthy paws on the Mercedes? I picked that up from reruns of CSI shows on various digital channels over the years. I can still see her lying there as he opened the boot and forced me to survey the extent of the damage that I had caused. Hands taped and blood pouring from my fresh wounds, the baseball bat indentations throbbing on my battered bones as I looked into her still open, though curiously vacant eyes. I guess it's only fair that we both suffered the same fate this day for our unrequited love, the illicit and lurid legacy of our torrid affair, and yet a part of me, a selfish part that lurks deep in the very recesses of my worthless heart, somehow wishes that Susan were still alive to give me a perspective, a reason to make a stand and fight back like a man with all my strength and might. As it is, I am broken, nothing left to care for, the reason for my existence snuffed out before me. I am beaten. I guess there is always Mr Timmins, but no doubt once he realizes that I have not shown up for his on the dot five thirty dinner spread, he'll do what all cats do and find some other sucker to fall for his fluffalicious charms.
A wave pounds me, rushing my nostrils as salt water powers past the restricted passageways, pain searing through my brain as I try to eject the water from my mouth in rapid spits, head flailing with the limited movement my neck has. It's actually quite a buzz, the cold water smacking me in the face, the realization that this is it, I'm facing the reaper any second. I'd like to make a final speech and announce to the world that I enjoyed my short life and lived it to the full, but the world doesn't care much it seems to me, as local residents still fester in the pits of their love nests, leaving just a handful of curious sea gulls to ride the breeze around me. It could have been so perfect, so idyllic, as we two forbidden lovers luxuriated in the moment of our freedom, heading off into the metaphoric sunset on white horses to begin a new life away from that monster. I should have been a man, had some backbone, thought this moment through and offered up at least a valiant defence. But here I sit, bound to a collapsible fishing chair with a broken nose and shattered dreams, the woman I love lying dead just metres from me and his victory complete and final.
The final wave signals her intent from afar, gathering momentum and lifting her skirts as she heads like a Queen on her trusty many hands high white steed with sword held aloft and steel visor firmly down. This is it I guess, as I face my demise, mouth open and screaming as defiantly as my throat will muster, the slit gushing rich ruby red lifeblood from the precise slashing that his serrated diving knife so cordially obliged me with. The water rushes over me and I can hear my scream beneath the wave as I struggle for breath and wait for the water to recede enough for one last gulp of air. But sometimes hopes and dreams are scattered to the winds as is the case right here and now. As my breath falters and water rushes into every orifice, I sense the end is here. Perhaps soon I will be reunited with my love in a better place. Underwater, eyes open, I ponder the existence of Mermaids from ancient legend and live in hope that one will come and rescue me at her leisure.
Ever the optimist.
Believe in mermaids? Right here, right now, never moreso.....
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***** Selected for sale in the GETTY IMAGES COLLECTION on April 7th 2015
CREATIVE RF gty.im/ MOMENT OPEN COLLECTION**
This photograph became my 635th frame to be selected for inclusion and sale in the Getty Images 'Moment' collection and I am very grateful to them for such a wonderful oportunity.
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Rewritten from a piece penned on December 31st 2010 Photograph taken at sunrise on the beach at Camber Sands in East Sussex, England.
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Nikon D700 34mm 1/50s f/3.2 iso200 -0.3step EV
Nikkor AF-S 24-70mm f/2.8G ED IF. UV filter. Manfrotto 055XPro Carbon fibre & Manfrotto 327 RC2 pistol grip. Shutter release and mirror up.
© Saira Bhatti
“You ask me what forces me to speak? a strange thing; my conscience” ~Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
The route to Mount Denali is very challenging due to the fact the only way come anywhere near this peak, one is has to hike through the surrounding glaciers and the area is prone to avalanches. Took this shot of the Ruth glacier and the Great Gorge while flying over before our landing there #Canon #Glaciers #Landscape #Denali #Alaska #Photography
we were talking about the conscience in my ethics lesson today. like every other topic we've studied, it's only when i'm forced to consider these questions that i actually do. never in my life before have i thought about whether or not i believe that the conscience exists and now that i've learned about it, i cannot unlearn it. i can never again be unaware of such a notion and i don't know if this a good thing or not. i suppose that's what growing up is, knowing things that you don't want to.
Situated in the east end of Salisbury Cathedral - in the Trinity Chapel - this is the Prisoners of Conscience stained glass window, which was designed in 1980 by Gabrielle Loire from Chartres, France.
Just below this striking window to the left can be seen the candle for Amnesty International, burning brightly for all prisoners of conscience around the world - including those who have spoken out against oppressive regimes and have subsequently been imprisioned because the authorities do not allow freedom of speech.
Unlike all the other stained glass windows in Salisbury Cathedral, which adhere to the classical style of art, these stained glass windows are very "modern" in style.
HDR image: 5D Canon + 15mm Sigma Fisheye lens, mounted on sturdy Manfrotto tripod and shutter release used. Image produced using three exposures. Processed in Photomatix Pro & Photoshop.
Copyright © 2007 f2 Photography
Please Note: This image may not be used for any purpose without written permission from F-2 Photography. You are NOT allowed to download, blog, print, broadcast, publish, use in a mosaic, use on a forum, distribute, change and/or manipulate this image for commercial, private or non-commercial reasons.
This is my varsity cheerleader picture. Dianne, in the front, became my sister in law. Debbie, up and left, passed away from cancer in 1998. Sue was my best friend, and I don't know where she is now.
Our H.S. reunion is this summer (2011) for all classes up to 1967. I'm not able to attend, but here's to departed friends, and the old poetry of cheerleading, in the days when cheering was more words than stunts. And attitude. Lots and lots of attitude.
It signified a certain social status that was subtly different from popularity. The next year was a bad year for me - my parents trying to kill each other at home, depression, loss of faith - you know - High School. I didn't make the squad. The tryouts were horrible. I barely tried. So awful. Falling from Grace. Again and again. Isn't life interesting?
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"To be the eyes and ears and conscience of the Creator of the Universe, you fool."
o[ Kilgore Trout's unwritten reply to the question "What is the purpose of life?"]
Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.
~Vonnegut
Khoo Teck Puat Hospital, Singapore
The sky suddenly became hazy during the sunset of September 30. Decided to still try shooting and while the sky was dismal, i guess the result was still pretty interesting.
Conscience is a man's compass, and though the needle sometimes deviates...still one must try to follow its direction. - Vincent van Gogh
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Original photo credit: Joshua Woroniecki
83-year-old Anglican priest Reverend Sue Parfitt sits in Parliament Square on 6 September 2025 shortly before her second arrest while protesting the proscription of Palestine Action.
Her presence highlights the remarkable diversity of the protest, which drew clergy, doctors, veterans, and many other ordinary citizens who felt compelled to act. This was not a crowd of militants but a cross-section of society prepared to risk their liberty to challenge what they saw as an unjust law criminalising solidarity with those trying to stop a genocide in Gaza.
😁 Un teselado para rememorar viejos tiempos :)
Conscience es uno de mis diseños que me hacía falta teselar hace un buen tiempo
Superego, defined my Merriam-Webster: "represents internalization of parental conscience and the rules of society, and functions to reward and punish through a system of moral attitudes, conscience, and a sense of guilt".
Situated in the Trinity Chapel (located in the east end of Salisbury Cathedral) this is the Prisoners of Conscience stained glass window, designed in 1980 by Gabrielle Loire from Chartres, France, remembering all prisoners of conscience held in captivity around the world. Unlike all the other stained glass windows in Salisbury Cathedral, which adhere to the classical style of art, these stained glass windows are very "modern" in style.
Viewing these stained glass windows really is a magnificent sight and when you view them for the very first time their beauty literally takes your breath away. Even from a distance they are impressive and eye catching. For example when you stand a considerable distance away in the west end, looking down Salisbury Cathedral's Nave and Quire, their bright blue stands in sharp contrast to the Cathedral's other muted tones.
Note: HDR image: 5D Canon mounted on sturdy Manfrotto tripod and shutter release used. Image produced using five exposures. Processed in Photomatix Pro & Photoshop CS3.
Copyright © 2008 f2 Photography
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Popular wisdom says that if we approach too much to a tree, we stop seeing the beauty of the wood. But not only we cannot see its beauty, but even we can end up by ignoring the wood itself. At the same time, if we only observe the wood, we won't be able to appreciate the details, also beautiful, of a tree, or another, or so many others. The challenge is to combine both things: details and global vision. Humanity can and will be able to walk together, but without losing the identity of any of those "trees", or cultures, or people. Balance. Global conscience.
Dice la sabiduría popular que si nos acercamos demasiado a un árbol, dejamos de ver la belleza del bosque. Pero no sólo dejar de ver belleza, sino que podemos terminar por ignorarlo. A la vez, si sólo observamos el bosque, no llegaremos a apreciar los detalles, también preciosos, de un árbol, o de otro, o de tantos otros. El reto está en combinar las dos cosas: el detalle y la visión global. La humanidad puede y podrá caminar junta, pero sin perder la identidad de cada uno de esos "árboles", o pueblos, o personas. Equilibrio. Consciencia global.
ANGEL OR DEMON - HALF BLOOD
GOOD OR BAD - NEUTRAL
RIGHT OR WRONG - WISE
I CHOSE MY OWN WAY TO LIVE THIS LIFE.
Rarely, occasionally, against my will I'm forced by one thing or another to venture into The Big Smoke.
There's these things, I think they call them malls, or perhaps it's maul's — no one cares about spelling anymore. I think they do it deliberately — these maulers — making the whole experience disorienting. My visits are infrequent enough to notice that what was there last time, isn't there now.
Fun, curiosity or masochism — it's hard to tell — pushed me around gawking at the shiny things, the faux brands, the works; all the time wondering where I was and if I would ever find a way out. Knowing I was up, I needed to go down! There's a clue. I didn't know which down but any escalator — surely a de-escalator — would do. This one plunged me into the precinct reeking of wrinkle-free promises, cheap and nasty scents and Southeast Asian nail 'salons'. Dismounting, I was face-to-face with this: a cosmetic conscience.
Not so much a photograph as a snapshot, it will stand as a record of an instant where protest has gone all mainstream and marketing: come in, buy our guilt-free goop (probably made with gas and coal, like our polymer displays, light diffusers and err, our light).
It's timely. Minister Plibersek, keen to approve coal and gas extraction projects, contrastingly has rejected both a silver and gold prospect on flimsy grounds where the science on gas and coal is solid. This is the problem with politics and transparency: they are not good bedfellows. Not wishing to be further mauled; I'm out of here!
April 22, 2022 - Erfgoedbibliotheek Hendrik Conscience (Heritage Library Hendrik Conscience) The library for Dutch literature, Flemish cultural heritage and the history of Antwerp.
The Hendrik Conscience Heritage Library spans more than five centuries of Antwerp and Flemish history. Its unique and complete collection encompasses rare old editions as well as more contemporary publications and popular, contemporary periodicals, on paper, microfilm or in digital form.
The collection is the result of a consistent collection policy, over several centuries. The library was established in 1481, following a donation of 41 books. Today it consists of more than 1.5 million volumes, including 40,000 early printed books that date from before 1830, on approximately 35 kilometres of bookshelves. The library is considered one of the best Flemish heritage collections, because of its comprehensive collection and its continuity." Previous information from the library website: consciencebibliotheek.be/en
"Englands boeses Gewissen." - "England's guilty conscience."
British foreign secretary Edward Grey wades through a sea of blood with a bag of money in his hand. A German anti-British postcard by Karl Arnold, published by the Liller Kriegszeitung, ca. 1915.