It's time to introduce a new series of vector assets: the crystal diagrams, volume one.

 

These two hundred assets (200) have been carefully drawn with the pen tool in Illustrator, sourced from old mineralogy/gemology books. They come in three versions:

 

- Stroked version (outline/dashed hidden lines if applicable)

- A compound shape version (outline/dashed hidden lines if applicable)

- A compound shape version (outline only)

 

These are perfect for many uses. Do you need a mystical piece of key art? We got you. Do you need a smaller ornament to complete a piece? We got you. Do you need to adjust the thickness of the line work to fit your current project's aesthetic? We got you. Do you need to add color to all/part of the crystal? We got you. Do you need sharp corners, bigger or smaller dashes? WE. GOT. YOU.

 

The line quality is clean and crisp. Each asset is available in various vector formats to fully take advantage of scalability. Applying your own library of aging/texturing/brush techniques to the assets is easy, and straight forward, thanks to their vector nature.

 

Have fun with them, and don't hesitate to share your work.

 

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- Two hundred (200) assets

- Available in a variety of vector formats for greater flexibility (Illustrator CC, CS6, CS3, EPS, PDF)

- 185 MB archive

 

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If you like the grit you see in the preview images, I'm happy to tell you that you can have it for your own projects! It comes from my vector noise textures, volume four, also available on Creative Market: crmrkt.com/dDmErV

 

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You should add your name to the Shop's mailing list at mailchi.mp/de8bed089b59/theshop. On the menu: new release sneak peeks, deals information, and other general updates from the factory floor. No spam, guaranteed.

I've just been in a funk ever since that spider bite dashed my hopes of being America's top 'hand model.'

 

I've had a lot of time to think and a whole bunch of freetime to try and get my agent to give me a call back or even answer my emails.

 

He told me that when I save up enough for that cheek reduction surgery that I might have a really good shot at getting a job with that Croatian Men's Fishing Wear line of clothes.

 

He said the company's on fire...

 

all the stylin' europeans apparently wanna look like Croatian fishermen.

 

It's a fashion thing.

 

'It's gonna be really big in 2013' Armando promised.

 

Of course I didn't tell him how much I needed the work since my debut line of casual and business clothing called 'The Chicago Man' flopped last month.

 

This could be the big break I've been waiting for.

 

I might even get to keep cable!

 

'You just gotta do something about those chubby cheeks of yours' Armando said.

 

'They're just too chubby.'

 

He reminded me that 'they're trying to sell fisherman's style clothing to men who wanna look rough and rugged... not to old ladies who'll go crazy tryin' to pinch your cheeks.'

 

'But these cheeks are my trademark man' I pointed out to Armando 'they got me that job with the denture adhesive people!'

 

'This isn't last years Fixodent campaign' he screamed 'think croatian fisherman gahdammit!'

 

'Isn't that the guy who sells fish sticks on tv' I asked... desperately trying to say anything that would impress him.

 

I've always tried to prove to people that I'm about more than just good looks.

 

'No... that's the fucking Gorton's Fisherman you idiot' he snarled.

 

I guess I didn't really impress him.

 

The fashion world can be so brutal and Armando wasn't done with me yet.

 

'And for gahd's sake trim those eyebrows' he yelled 'they're almost big enough to have their own freakin' zipcode!'

 

I looked at the phone in stunned silence... my feelings kinda hurt.

 

'Get rid of the cheeks and I can get you some work with the Croatians and don't call me anymore or I'll block you I swear to gahd' he joked as he slammed the phone down.

 

Now all I gotta do is find a plastic surgeon that can give me the cheeks of Sean Connery and I'll be set.

 

I've been practicing my 'air casting' all day and I'm gettin' pretty good.

 

The Viewminder Theme Song

Abbotsford, British Columbia, Canada

 

There are rabbits everywhere and so many little cute ones... this one right in front of me and stayed until I was about 4 feet away before it dashed into the thicket.

Amex - my first day June 1969 - Age 23

 

My first day at Amex was the day I thought would be my last day on earth. My arrival into the world of Amex came strangely thru the concept of nepotism. The previous summer I had worked for the City of Kamloops in the water works department. Actually a very interesting job laying water pipe in the new subdivisions, repairing broken water lines and contending and pretending that sewer lines were jolly good fun to fix and an anatomical look at the under belly of Kamloops, so to say.

 

One must also mention... at that time getting a job "in" Kamloops was a highly prized nugget. One could maintain one's normal weekend routines as opposed to being a way out there...somewhere...where telephones, television, the theatre, flushing toilets, hot water, springy mattresses, beer and that essential whiff of femininity hadn't quite made their mark yet.

 

So I went back to school in the fall and hoped to find at the end of the term summer work back with the City of Kamloops.

 

My brother Bud had just got a job there and when I applied they said…,” Sorry”. It was sort of like…"we don't hire members of the same family due to the potential, possibility of collaborative, nefariousness. I was just hoping for a summer job not to hijack…with my brother in tow...a shipment of sewer lids....and turning up at the local junkyard… hoping to turn some revenue. I was laid low! My summer plans in tatters!

 

Returning home with these sad tidings…. Pete Kirby… who boarded at Mum's place...said. ”Oh, I know someone in the survey business. He might be looking for someone. Here's his phone number." So I called and much to my surprise...I talked to Ab right off. He said ..."Can you be ready Monday morning at 5:00 A.M? I'll pick you up." So brief! In my excitement I didn't even ask him one important question… like: What should I take? How long is the job? Where are we going? How much is the pay? Any pain involved?

 

I wasn't too worried about my initial lack of curiosity though. A couple of years before, I had spent a wonderful summer up in Valemount working for the Department of Highways on one of the many survey crews creating the new Yellowhead Highway. I had some idea about the basics of surveying. In our case there were three of us. The transit man, with a vest full of pens and pencils all used in order to deal with many a triangulation. Red…he did have red hair…the rod man and me… the ever so steady holder... of one end of the steel chain and carrier of armfuls of short-sharpened pickets.

 

We strolled along…I don’t remember ever running…measuring the initial gouged out route and indicating on the pickets how much fill and how much cut was needed for any particular section. Lots of pauses due to the transit man doing the necessary calculations…in that time... we’d do the chats…watch blasters drill, load and blow rock to smithereens, occasionally, an exception here, having to run like hell as falling rock started landing all around us,…marvel at earth movers and bull dozers…till it was time to move on. Indeed, a very interesting, pain free way in which to earn money and pass the summer surrounded by all that majestic scenery.

 

Basically, I thought I was pretty well prepared for this, as yet, unknown job. Intact clothing in spades, the ever too thin sleeping bag….and a major purchase…the new work boots with a tin of leather grease…Dubbing, I think. But ,none the less, I felt I was ready for this adventure... I was ready to fly.

 

So up with the birds on that sunny Monday and sure enough at 5:00, Ab was outside the house in a pickup truck with canopy. I nimbly dashed out with my Dad’s old duffel bag in tow, stowed it in the back, hopped in the passenger side and realized there was another passenger sitting beside Ab.

 

Holy shit!!! It was Gordy Siemans!

 

In Kamloops, even in 1969, you didn’t have to know people personally to see or hear about their do-daring deeds, their bravado and generally their crazy times. Reputations…like the smell of the pulp mill…. could invade even the tiniest, mental crannies, creating, sometimes, catastrophic pictures of vast destruction. Gordy, in his teens already carried somewhat of a dare devil, difficult-fisticuffs sort of lad. I wondered what could have attracted Gordy to this rather passive job of surveying. Did he do some kind of survey course? Or?

 

I think mentally I went… “Whoa! Whoa!” Alas, many seconds too late as we were now racing up Columbia and shooting out Savona way. A strange silence filled the cab. Ab wasn’t saying anything. Gordy wasn’t saying anything. I thought it best to remain nonchalant. At least we all smoked…and that, at least, was a vague puff of communal sharing.

 

Right at the Savona Bridge… before the whirr, whirr, whirr part… Ab finally spoke. He said…”Is this where it happened?” Gordy said…”Yes.” The silence continued till we stopped at Cache Creek to tank up. Ab got out of the truck to pay and Gordy turned and looked at me with that irrepressible grin of his and said…”Ab’s really pissed off at me. I rolled his truck coming off the Savona Bridge on Saturday.”

 

Before I could utter anything intelligible…Ab was back in the truck and we zipped through Ashcroft and headed up to Logan Lake.

 

This was all new country for me so I was content to check the scenery out while the frosty silence was maintained until we bumped our way into the Logan Lake Lodge.

 

I think I remember a sprinkling of rustic cabins with a larger cabin which seemed to be the Amex nerve centre. Milling about were various people in various states of, what I would learn later was, bush dress.

 

Bush dress was once new but has been roundly savaged by whatever hell lurks out there in the bush. You just sensed that waving a needle and thread around would seem a futile gesture. I gathered breakfast had just been finished and work prep was underway. I was told to grab my bag and find a bed inside the large cabin.

 

Probably many a soul has not experienced the smell that can stick to a place inhabited by a community of humans who toil and sweat all day and live in those clothes for what smells like a really long time. Those have really missed one of live’s infinite slices.

 

Upon entering “The Lodge,” I immediately felt some gravitational force trying to draw me back outside. It’s hard to find a word to describe a place where so many different bad smells can coalesce into one major, nasal-hair burning, unforgettably, mind boggling stench. I was to learn later that when you add your own stink to all those other difficult to describe odours…you could feel almost right at home.

 

“The Lodge,” was one big open space. Filled with beds along the sides. A large wood stove in the middle and kitchen with a large table for the meals. On first sight this dwelling might be deemed chaotic. There was such a spread of “things” covering and filling the whole space. The area where the wood stove was located was surrounded by every item of clothing known to man. That was only the stove. Rank clothing hung everywhere!

 

Trying to avoid socks hung in artful ways…socks that you knew could walk on air…..sweat-stiffened T shirts draped on anything that you could hang something on…in fact… you could have used them as kites. Not so white-in-rags, fart-stained Stanfield’s underwear badly in need of some, as yet, un-invented, heavy-duty detergent. Truly overly mature underwear seriously hoping that someone would take mercy on their beggarly state and build a pyre and cremate them. You just had to be visually impressed at all of this! Trying to find a new way to breath, I located a bed and quickly eased my way outside.

 

Up to now, there had not been a formal introduction made to anyone. A friendly…” How do you do?” would have, somehow, seemed excessive. Except for Gordy… I knew no one. But slowly, I realized that there were two other new guys standing about wondering what was in store for them, and, as I remember, they were from Ontario hitching to Vancouver. Some Amexer had picked them up and offered them a job.

 

Obviously, the customary job interview with the padded resume was not considered a necessary appendage for Amex workers.

 

We chatted a bit until I heard Ab say…”give the new guys an axe and file.” Some person brought them to us and said for us to sharpen them. I had never sharpened an axe before and holding the axe in one hand and the file in the other, was real foreign territory for me. Scrape, scrape, scrape was not really doing it. Before I could even peak on that learning curve we were forming into work groups.

 

When this was happening, a car pulled up and out popped 3 guys… Bill Metcalfe, Gary Lyall and Bruce Bried. I think they were returning from doing a recon on a property near Kelowna. There was a very animated discussion with Ab over the horrors that they had encountered there. In reality they might have been communicating in Japanese for all that I understood.

 

There was a lot of new vocabulary in this biz to assimilate. What I did understand was that some evil force dwelled there and that overwhelmingly large widow makers with flexible-steel limbs and bad-tempered, massive, piles of windfall would render any person who entered their realm into garden mulch.

 

So back to work groups. I found myself with 8 other guys crammed into Bruce’s car. A wonderfully, fading late 50s something or other. In about 20 minutes Bruce dropped 6 of us off and left to some other unnamed destination. So there we were… 6 of us…three rookies and three compass men and not a transit between us.

 

Still no real explanation as to what we were expected to do. We lit up our cigs and looked across a flat expanse of what my eyes could see was a very damp marsh. It looked like a very damp, 400 meter marsh. I could definitely see an infinite array of water-like blue specks held in place by little grassy hillocks. The water was being tenderly rippled by a light breeze.

 

Gordy and the two compass men (names unknown) were actually discussing if there was another way to reach our work area. It seems there wasn’t. I think Gordy said…”Well fuck it! Let’s go!” Before you can say…”Excuse me guys! What about my new boots?” There they were and us heading out into that marsh. We were very reluctantly following… but following we did. First there was a vain attempt to hop from hillock to hillock but they were too wet and wobbly so you just slipped off them into the water anyway. It was a long, wallowing haul to reach the other side… every step a little water-logged heavier.

 

The other side was where something called a base line was. As water seeped out of me boots, I gazed at my first hand-made picket. There was B/L 0+00 something on it. If you really looked you could see that there was a cut out, blazed and flagged line running up this big hill which you could not see the end of. We had to climb this big hill. For a guy like me… at this time in space…exercise was a short walk to the corner store for cigs and changing gears and stepping on the gas in my car. Without a thought about a massive coronary… up we went.

 

Wet, new boots are like wearing massive, saturated sponges, taped onto old automobile transmissions. Weighty, very weighty! Feet in wet work socks are like fine sandpaper on soles and… you know…you never thought about bringing an extra pair, did you? At this point, you realize you didn’t think about very much. But how were you to know?

 

So, with baptized boots, the ascent began, squishing ever upwards. Soon…legs screaming! Lungs gasping! Upwards! Ever upwards! God! Please make it end soon! I was ahead of the other two rookies and I occasionally looked back to see how they were coping and I thought… if I looked like them… it was very scary…their faces were twisted and contorted into some orgasmic form of the grotesque.

 

Eventually, up ahead, I could see the three compass men sitting having a smoke. As I slowly came closer to them…I was quickly composing myself…tiding up the pain and trying to get my breathing and throbbing-beating heart under control. That is, I sure and hell didn’t want them to know that I had just gone through a near death experience and I was really trying to exude some semblance that all was well. This was my everyday! Splashing around in swamps and dashing up mountains was all quite the norm to me. In fact lads, a real lark. The other two rookies were pretty good actors too.

 

Yes! The pause that refreshes and I didn’t know if I ever could get up again. Cigs out and Gordy says I’m going with him. Now I find out what my job is. The other four headed further up the line. Adding to my vocabulary, I find out that I’m a “tail chainer” and would be “tailing the chain.” We were working on a “grid.” I find out that we are standing at a “station.” There is a handmade picket that proudly proclaims this… B/L 0 S+28 W. “From this point we will head south so many hard feet. You have a few things to do. First you must follow me. I have here a chain. It hooks on to my belt here.” He shows me a nylon cord a 100 feet long. “When I’m out a hundred feet and the end is even with this B/L picket… you must tug the line and yell out…”CHAIN!”

 

“Then follow me to the next station. In between throw some blazes and tie some flagging. You must as well make the pickets. First cut something this high, shows me…he expertly cleans both sides off the top of this young spruce and tells me to write…for example…L 28 W 1 S then, L 28 W 2 S etc.”

 

Gordy, quickly made three pickets for me and presents me with some rolls of blue and yellow flagging and a black Pental pen. “When we get to the end of the line we will turn around...clean out the line…limb the branches axe high… back to the base line and then we will go out the opposite direction and repeat the process.”

 

Did I get it all? There was no formal question period as I was trying to stick flagging in my jeans pockets, balancing three pickets, wondering how to hold my axe, while Gordy took a compass shot and disappeared into the bush. I intently watched the chain. It was moving quite rapidly. In fact, I almost missed grabbing the end. Catching and holding it up to the B/L picket…I hollered my first…”CHAIN!”

 

Starting off from that cut out base line, I plunged into my first real bush. On that first day, I didn’t really notice the infinite variety of vegetative forms that abound there in. It was simply, ”the bush.” By the end of that first day I was to find out how malevolent it could be. There are so many different ways in which the bush can inflict painful reminders of just how weak and sensitive our human vessel is.

 

On that first line, or was it the first 100 feet… I was slapped, poked, jabbed, tripped up, slipped off a knee high deadfall landing on my shin, received quite a few whacks, mostly facials from sneaky, spring-loaded spruce boughs . You bet they all hurt. Worse, a bough gently waltzed across my eye ball, temporarily blinding me. Fuck! Did that smart! By the way…where is that chain? GOOOOORD!!!!

 

While Gordy is waiting for me to find the end of the chain…I must digress and add this interesting psychological observation. When you are being Amexed out there, flailing about in all that greenary, ”The Bush” is different.

 

For example, when you are in your car driving by it, normally, you consider it to be a beautiful, inanimate force of nature. All art forms have praised its visual majesty… but you don’t normally talk to it... do you?

 

For example, I didn’t walk the streets of Kamloops having the chats with various trees. Nor did I see others so occupied. Indeed, exceptions do exist…shamans, wizards, magi and others so gifted who can connect with vegetation on other wonderful levels… but… the norm excludes somebody coming up to you and saying…”Jesus! I just had an interesting chat with that maple tree over there”.

 

On my first day, when I was really in the bush, getting quite intimate, much to my surprise, I found out that trees and shrubs or anything trying to impede me…did really take on personalities of their own. I slowly, became aware of an intelligence that I had never met before.

 

Later, I always thought of “the bush” as an experienced, well armed gladiator that I had to outwit and everyday, on the job, you were back in the coliseum. I even thought, more so, that they really communicated in the spirit of The Old Testament. Acting out scriptures full of smite, smoke, sulphur and sacrifice. They spoke and acted in such a way that you clearly knew that you were not of the chosen.

 

No poop here. They could communicate in their way, and, I, in turn, was actually now talking to them. In fact, as I experienced the wonders of Amex in more detail, I overheard conversations that others had had with the bush that were truly masterpieces of base eloquence. The bush induced truly awe-filled, vocal pagan calls for respite, mercy and down on your knees, seeking forgiveness for vile acts nobody ever did.

 

These oral outpourings were, unfortunately, never recorded to my knowledge. In my imagination, I see a Canadian library filled with inventive words of cuss with a dash of fear. Shelves bending!

 

I think the norm was chatting to them in the way one talks to somebody who wishes you grave ill. In fact, my emotional-vocal range covered begging and pleading to rage. I’ve begged and pleaded with the bush in a situation like finding yourself entangled in the embrace of a large, dark spruce that is trying to eat you… frantically looking for that fucking chain.

 

I have politely said… ” Please! Please! Let me through!” I might, on occasion, have even offered to pay a toll. In fact, I would have given anything to have been allowed to keep up to that chain.

 

On the other hand, I have also found myself turning into a psychopathic, raging lunatic. In a situation like… a big Spruce branch that your dull axe can’t quite cut. You smash it and it swings way out and comes flying right back into your face. You smash it again and it comes swinging back once again… right into your face.

 

You get really pissed off… drop your axe and attack it with your bare, fucking hands. Yes, you give it a sound drubbing! You rip that limb off that tree…throw it to the ground! You repeatedly jump on it! You pick up your axe… and lay into that poor booger and do your best to reduce it to sawdust.

 

All the while…during this give and take with the bough… you are talking to it all the time as if it’s human. Mostly… it is a fairly coarse conservation…but a conversation, none the less. Screaming, the most basic of Anglo-Saxon cuss words like a religious, manically-incantation. You are doing your damnable best to put a hex on it and you know it’s getting the message. It knows that you want to lay it low. It’s fighting back and “he” knows what you are all about.

 

He knows a lot of under bush tricks that he, in turn, is going to lay on you. That is why you soon find out that there is not a bush type out there called… Bobby, Dick, Jane or Sally… but many a bush type so named… that if your mother heard you using such a name… not only would she drop her drawers... but she would vigorously wash your mouth out with soap.

 

Back to that first line and I quickly realized that the chain was moving quite faster than I was. My trot was moving into a gallop in order to grab the end of the chain at the next station. My attempts at tying some flagging and blazing a few trees was indeed rather paltry. The most crushing anxiety came after I had used up my first three pickets that Gordy had made for me, and now, I had to start making my own.

 

Sometimes, within the station area, there was not to be found suitable picket material and you had to go further a field to find one slender tree that was useable… and that really ate up valuable nano seconds. That chain simply wasn’t waiting for you. Even trying to stick that bloody picket in the ground could create some time consuming but very deep and involved conversations with the earth.

 

I was now in full flight chasing that chain. Smashing and crashing through the bush changing quite rapidly from a genial human being into some other animal form. I know I wasn’t multi-tasking but it sure felt like it. Frantically, tying flagging, blazing, looking for and making pickets, pounding after that cursed chain… I was certain that it was really happening all at once.

 

Why were my eyes the size of saucers? Why was I so recklessly running through this shit? Why wasn’t Gordy walking normally? Me! Who collapsed after one lap at Kamloops High and got a C minus in gym. Was I participating in some sadistic, Olympic event, sans medals, lost in the wilderness without a grain of blessed humour?

 

I really noticed quite quickly that Gordy wasn’t politely waiting for me at every station. Making an occasional picket or two for hapless me. All I could occasionally see was his back disappearing into another dark, green maze as I dashed desperately towards the next station.

 

Eventually, we got to the end of that first line. It was to me 1500 feet of the most punishing work experience I had ever fallen into and, by golly, we had to go back up it. As I walked up to Gordy, it was really hard to suppress the shock waves thundering through my body. I just could not imagine what kind of wicked, wicked force could have formed all of this unpleasantness? If there wasn’t that element called pride… I would have fallen down on my knees and begged Gordy to get me out of here. Trying my best to prevent my shaking legs from collapsing under me I did manage to ask him for a smoke.

 

Gordy rolled up the chain and we proceeded back up the line cleaning it out. It does take more than a few days to become conversant with the power of an axe. It’s historically a mighty work and war tool and deserves a lot of respect because you can create lasting scars on your body even when it is really dull. Probably, your first days swinging an axe are your safest because you are a little frightened of it and haven’t developed, as yet, that carefree, disdain for its deadly powers.

 

The formula for heading back to the baseline was that I ran up a hundred feet cutting and blazing to upgrade our initial pass. Gordy would catch up to me… then I would run up ahead until he got up to me again. I was hacking and trotting, hacking and trotting cause Gordy was pretty fast at limbing, dismembering and disembowelling anything that offended him. As he got closer to me I could hear his axe going…Whack! Whack! I was getting…chip, chip, out of mine. Soon Gordy was breathing fire down my neck and off I ran.

 

Back at the base line we had a quick smoke before we headed off in the next direction.

 

Believe me it was the same theme. I’m trying to keep up to that ever elusive chain, blazing, tying flagging, making pickets, jousting with the bush, and trying to keep the pain level low. Somehow, it seemed like a long, long, punishing marathon before we finally ended up back at the base line for lunch.

 

I think we completed 3 or 4 lines. We actually met up with another duo and settled in for some chats. I pulled out my sandwich, but it didn’t look like the sandwich I had made this morning. Someone had played road hockey with it. I tried to find out how the other rookie had found the job so far. I can’t really remember what he said… but I like to think that when I looked into his eyes…I saw the same horror that he saw in mine.

 

I found out another interesting aspect about the job when Gordy’s first question to the other compass man was. “How many feet have you done?” He said something like 3000 feet and Gordy said…jokingly… but not really…if you know what I mean…”Is that all! We have done 4,500 feet so far.”

 

In spite of my fatigue I really perked up at that. You mean the other rookie had not been dragged through as much bush as I had! That Gordy is much more, fleet of foot than the other compass man! That the other rookie perhaps didn’t have to run! That the other compass man might have been a compassionate sort! That… in the big axe throwing contest in the sky… I won a trip with an apparent over achiever and, perhaps someone, doing his best to atone for a rolled, pickup truck!

 

That underneath all of this shared pain, comrades-in-axes fellowship, I was involved in a very deadly, serious competition based on, “footage!!!” A competition… I was quickly finding out…that so far surpassed the rigours of a decathlon or the labours of Heracles.

 

The “footage” competition was totally unfair! It was not played on flat ground or placid waters! It was not a level playing field! The game’s grounds were determined by massive geological forces that had bent and twisted this playing field into infinite arrays of extraordinarily, confounding patterns of contour lines that made every foot earned a conquest of appalling magnitude! Add the vegetative aspect and you are now facing a natural force so omnipotent that it demands unconditionally not only, your clothing and new boots, but, as well, your body and your soul!

 

Man! That was a short lunch! Before I could shake the kinks out that had settled within my body…I was again up and running. Was it me or had the pace picked up? Or was I experiencing that famous last blast? Had I broken through that barrier and was gliding on pure energy? In hind sight, I think, my body sensory capabilities had just shut down… no doubt due to excessive jolts of pain. Survival instinct turned up really high. I was literally running on auto pilot. Blaze, flag, chain! Cut, cut, cut! Blaze, flag, chain! Cut, cut, cut!

 

We finished the last line around 5:00, I believe. I can tell you now what it feels like getting a reprieve from the hang man after spending most of your life in jail and being finally set free. Forget about fornication because this feeling is so much deeper. It’s that feeling where you just might pause one day in front of your local Salvation Army band-choir and hum along a bit…tapping your foot ,build a few roadside shrines, or, perhaps, become better acquainted with Psalm 23 and contemplate all the good deeds you could do for your fellow man. For lack of a better word…it is a very “holy” feeling.

 

Time wise, on any other job, it was a reasonable day. But in that day I had blown out about as much energy that I would normally use in a year and now all we had to do was get off this fucking hill and Bob’s your uncle.

 

Walking down that hill proved worse than walking up. Stabbing pains ran up and down my legs as I tried to brake myself going downward. My legs were all rubbery with nil shock absorber effect. I did my best to stifle the moans. If other people weren’t around I would have probably cried, wailing at my fate and rolled down or slid down on my ass just to see the end of that hill.

 

At the bottom was that swamp. This time I didn’t give a shit! I plunged in like an eager beaver. I could see that road off in the distance and Bruce’s car waiting to pick us up and I focused directly on that spot and who knows I may have even walk on top of that water. Bruce’s car…Bruce himself… what a beautiful sight! A really, really, truly, heavenly vision! I thought I saw halos over that car and you don’t get that too often.

  

We again crammed into his car and the game of footage was a hot topic. I wasn’t really listening. I was fascinated by the strange seizures that my body was going through. I couldn’t feel certain things. I had trouble unfurling my pitch-sticky hands. They looked like claws. When I tried to straighten them they would spring back into claws. My feet seem to be missing. In all that dampness they had floated off somewhere.

 

So it made it quite fun when we arrived back at the lodge to discover that sitting up and getting out of Bruce’s car was quite a physical event for me. Muscles and joints were seizing up fast and it was easiest to crawl out on my hands and knees, pretending I was looking for something. Slowly, carefully, standing up…while still acting the jocular…mind… was excruciatingly painful.

 

I walked like Frankenstein into the lodge hoping that the more intense footage conversations were so involving that no one would notice that I had become a physical oddity. I heard Ab ask Gordy how much footage he had got and when he off handily said,” 9000.” Ab, really didn’t say anything… but you sensed that Gordy had made a small but substantial down payment on that rolled, pickup truck.

 

I was so happy to be out of that bushy horror that the lodge reek that had scared the shit out of my nose in the morning had taken on a more subtle tang and was actually quite comforting. I really stank myself and could hardly wait to don some fresh clothing and dry socks. My new boots had been reduced to boots that had walked around the world a 100 times and I felt I would be lucky if they could hold together for another two days.

 

No need to tell what a job it was to get undressed and dressed again. Finally, getting those wet socks off and having a look at my feet really scared me. They were all soft, red and wrinkly, rather outer worldly, as if they belonged to some other alien life form. They seem to have aged tremendously, all in one fell swoop a swamp.

 

All my clothing was now hanging just like everybody else’s and I felt big time bagged and definitely not firing on all cylinders. Post traumatic stress, the 1000 yard stare, battle fatigue all wars rolled into one.

 

Some lads were making supper. Can’t remember what it was but do remember helping out with the dishes in some sort of daze… then walking over to my bed… laying on it… then it was morning again! Truly a sleep of such deepness that when my eyes flashed open for a couple of minutes I really didn’t know where I was. When I did realize where I was... a very dark, depressing cloud of horror settled in. I was still in hell.

 

A loud tapping was coming from the roof area and after some thought I realized it was really raining outside. I tried to move and realized I couldn’t! Yes…I could move… but every atom of my body was in extreme pain. Wrinkle your toes and spasms of pain rolled upward. Wink, and die the death of a thousand cuts. My body said don’t move! It said it very loud and clear! Totally immobile… and realizing this, I began to feel a growing sense of panic creeping through every suffering, molecule of my body.

 

I couldn’t imagine how I was supposed to cross swamps, ascend mountains, swing that axe, tie that flagging while running after that chain in my present condition. I might as well have been in an iron lung.

 

People were starting to roll out of their beds, someone making coffee, belching and farting away while I am trying to deal with my rather serious, anxiety attack. I believe I began to think of desperately, viable excuses to explain my present inability to rise and shine. Take my axe to myself! “Oh! Look guys what my axe did to me!” Jesus! I couldn’t think of one way that wouldn’t have had me melting into a deep pool of shame. What could I say to my mother? Again, pride does have its kill side.

 

I tried ever so slowly to ease myself into something that looked like a sitting position and to this day I can remember the agony. I can’t remember how many minutes it took. During this slow motion process…I tried to muffle many a long drawn out moan… which I foolishly tried to disguise as a long drawn out smoker’s, cough attack.

 

Lifting my arms to put on that T shirt. Sanding to pull my pants up, are what legends are made of. The ultimate pinnacle of dealing with this pain was putting on my still damp boots. They seemed to have shrunk. That was the total Spanish inquisition all in one go. Jesus on the cross stuff.

 

But now breakfast was ready and grand smells of bacon and coffee had me ever so slowly inching my way over to that table and ever so slowly easing myself into a chair. My hands curiously, were still doing claw-like things and made... picking the fork and knife up and dealing with my coffee cup… a little challenging. Even crunching on bacon and toast was causing pain, but, at least, with eggs, a less painful option, if you carefully let them slide down on their own.

 

With breakfast over, I gingerly helped out with the dishes. The rain continued to tap dramatically on the roof and I could see out the window that the rain was really coming down. Big puddles were turning into ever growing mini Amazons. I really tried not to think about the possible transformations that were taking place out in the bush. I felt and sensed that more evil things could even be multiplying out there.

 

An ominous fear of getting close to that bush was now added to all my other fears. With my body….the all over…really, stiff-painful body that I now inhabited… it was sure going to make it more than difficult to put on a chipper face and fake the cheerful…this is, “ really a lark lads, ” thing.

 

Over on the cleaned off dinner table a major conference was taking place. Ab, Frosty, Gordy, Jack, Bill, and others were peering down at a map and discussing strategy. I didn’t really hear what it was they were talking about but I did hear this, and this is the point in your life where you learn that miracles are not only confined to biblical scripture. That, just perhaps, there are really angels perched on your shoulders lending, in times of extreme duress, a much needed hand and flap of wing.

 

Ab raised his head and the golden chords of his voice filled every nook and cranny of that lodge. Ab said…”Hey you guys were going to knock off work for few days and let this rain clear up.” For a sec you couldn’t hear a pin drop. Nobody said much…. but if overwhelming relief was measured in water we would have flooded the total landmass of British Columbia.

 

In a pain free world…I would have fell on my knees …first thanking every God and Goddess out there… and then leapt up off of my knees… hopped, skipped and jumped into Ab’s arms and kissed him all over. My cup was truly running over with pure, blessed thankfulness.

 

Unable to express my true physical feelings in my current state …I remained frozen at the wash sink...gazing out the window as the river built upon the mini Amazons. So relieved as ecstatic waves of love sponged away my fears. Oh! Blessed rain! Giver of life! I wasn’t going to die out there today.

 

Getting back to Kamloops was made really easy because Bruce was heading there himself and offered to take me and a few other lads as well. I think the other two rookies who were hitching to Vancouver were also in the car and were placed back on the road outside of Ashcroft.

 

I just knew that after we headed off, that they both got down on that pavement, and kissed it many, many times. Never in the annals of history has a road ever looked so good in the pissing rain.

 

When I got home the first thing I did was take a very hot shower and took my trashed body off to bed. I actually slept that day and night away and knew in my heart of hearts… even then… that I would never-ever forget what I had experienced on that first day for Amex. It added a whole, unforgettable dimension to the world of surveying and a lasting blaze on my heart.

   

Got dreams dashed?

 

Handheld

Voigtlander 90mm f/2.8 Apo-Skopar

  

The only Grade I listed parkland and gardens in South Yorkshire, Wentworth Castle Gardens is home to no fewer than 26 listed buildings and monuments, each of them with a different tale to tell. Stories of power, wealth and politics, family infighting, misery and hope can be found in the history of Wentworth Castle Gardens, and its monuments, statues and buildings help us truly understand its past.

 

The Wentworths were one of the most important families in Yorkshire. Long before the time of the English Civil War (1642–51), members of the Wentworth family held seats of power and influence in the area, building the imposing estate at Wentworth Woodhouse in South Yorkshire as their home.

 

When William Wentworth, the 2nd Earl of Strafford (1626–95) died childless, his nephew Thomas Wentworth (1672–1739) expected to inherit the family fortune and their grand home at Wentworth Woodhouse. His hopes were dashed when the fortune and Wentworth Woodhouse instead passed to his cousin, Thomas Watson.

 

Infuriated, Thomas Wentworth used his skills as a soldier and diplomat to plot revenge. Within a few years he had bought, extended and renamed his own house and estate, just six miles away from Wentworth Woodhouse, at the estate we now know as Wentworth Castle. In 1711 he even acquired the old family title, the Earldom of Strafford – all to outshine his ‘obnoxious relative.’

 

In 1714, the crown of England controversially passed from the Stuart royal line to the Hanoverians. This 1734 monument is dedicated to Anne, the last Stuart monarch, and is unique in an English garden. It’s an almost treasonous statement by Thomas Wentworth, and hints at what he thought of the regime change.

 

The geometric design of this maze-like garden was very fashionable when it was first created for Thomas Wentworth in 1713. But there’s a patriotic message here too: Thomas created the design to combine the crosses of St George and St Andrew, celebrating the union of Scotland and England in 1707. This union was a proud moment in Queen Anne’s reign, and so even after her death this garden stands as proof of his loyalty to her.

 

Although recognised as one of the UK's greatest 18th century landscaped estates, the house and gardens Thomas Wentworth had built are closely tied to the Transatlantic Slave Trade.

 

In 1713, he was instrumental in securing for Britain the lucrative monopoly to transport and sell enslaved people from African countries to the Spanish empire. The design of his grand house and garden was in part a celebration of his pride in this ‘achievement'.

 

Thomas also made direct profit from the trade, partly from shares he owned and partly through his marriage to Anne Johnson (c.1684–1754) whose family were deeply involved in the slave trade by building ships for the East India Company and working for the Royal African Company.

 

In 1711, Wentworth was appointed joint negotiator of the Treaty of Utrecht, which ended the long War of the Spanish Succession. As part of these negotiations, Britain gained the monopoly to supply enslaved people from African countries to the Spanish colonies in the Americas – known as the ‘Asiento.’

 

Wentworth considered the treaty a crowning achievement in his diplomatic career and something to be proudly represented in his house and gardens. This included a sundial, now in the conservatory, in the form of a kneeling African man – a legacy of the enslavement of Africans and the objectification of Black bodies in British and European art.

 

‘To the memory / of the Rt. Hon. / Lady Mary Wortley Montagu / who in the Year 1720 / Introduced Inoculation / of the Small Pox into / England from Turkey’.

 

An example of an extremely early memorial dedication to a non-royal woman was probably added to an older monument by Thomas’ son, William (1722–91). It's also known as the Sun Memorial.

 

Lady Mary Wortley-Montagu (1689-1762) was a poet and letter-writer, well known for her travel writing, including descriptions of Muslim women and their lives in the 18th century Ottoman Empire. Her life and work continues to fascinate and she is seen by many today as a proto-feminist and historic LGBT+ figure.

 

After seeing inoculation against smallpox practised in Constantinople (now Istanbul), she made British medical history by helping to make it fashionable in British high society during the 1720s. William Wentworth and his three sisters were all treated to protect them from the terrible disease.

 

It is not certain when the monument, which is a copy of an ancient obelisk in Rome, was first erected. It originally had a bronze disc on top which was rumoured to be angled to reflect the sunlight across to the Wentworth Woodhouse estate. Could this be another example of family rivalry on show? It has also been suggested that the name is also an 18th century pun on ‘sun’ and ‘son.’

 

In 1744, William Wentworth dedicated this grand column to his late father in law, the 2nd Duke of Argyll. Shortly before his death, the Duke had been punished for opposing the government's harsh anti-Jacobite policies in Scotland. This column dedicated to his memory is topped with a statue of Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom and war, who faces south to London. Was William making a subtle political comment with this monument?

St Mary, Shotley, Suffolk

 

The Shotley Peninsula runs like a flame, or a tongue, between the Rivers Stour and Orwell as they sprawl lazily towards the sea. At Shotley Point, the two rivers meet before emptying into the grey North Sea, the great industrial expanse of Felixstowe Docks on the north bank dominating the scene, while prettier Harwich to the south busies itself looking purposeful. In summer, you can stand all day at Shotley Point watching. There is always something to see: the vast container ships bringing Chinese televisions and Vietnamese shoes, the ferries with their cargoes of sleepy Dutch and German motorists, small Arthur Ransomesque yachts speeding out of the Orwell with its marinas, a wherry of London bankers sipping Pimms in the sunshine, wondering where their next bonus is coming from...

 

In winter this is a wild place, the gales from the great German Ocean flattening the hedgerows, the windows of the Bristol Arms rattling in the gusts along the empty streets, the ghosts of HMS Ganges, the Royal Navy Training College, silent now above the mudflats when the tide is out. But this was once a busy place, full of the chatter of young sailors, and during the First World War it was a famous place. Today it has lost its way: it is still one of Suffolk's biggest villages, but its remoteness ill-serves the housing estates which sprawl back towards Erwarton and Chelmondiston. Shotley is a strange place.

 

The setting of this church is also most curious. It is further from the village it serves than any other Suffolk church. Erwarton parish church is closer to Shotley village than Shotley church is. St Mary stands in a tiny, tightly-packed hamlet in the low hills towards Chelmondiston. In fact, this was the original village. The place we now call Shotley was once an outlying fishing hamlet, Shotley Gate. You reach St Mary along one of two narrow lanes.

 

The stubby tower of the church hugs a later raised clerestory, quite out of keeping with each other. If I come here on a hot Summer's day, and climb the steep hill leading up to it, I am always reminded more of the Dordogne than of East Anglia. The graveyard is set on a steep hillside, the huge cranes of Trimley Dock towering precipitously beyond the river below. This graveyard is one of the most haunting in East Anglia, filled with the graves of mostly teenage lads sent out by HMS Ganges to die in accidents and wars. Some of their bodies were brought back for burial, but most often these are mere memorials to young boys lost deep beneath fathoms of filthy, icy water. You think of their happy laughter: climbing onto the bus to go to the pictures in Ipswich, or courting a local girl along one of the narrow, poppy-lined lanes. It is heartbreaking, particularly if you are a parent.

 

Unusually for Suffolk, the south door opens almost onto the street. You step into the light of a wide-aisled nave. The pleasantly cool whitewashed interior seems much larger than is possible from the outside. But the eye is irresistably drawn to one of the most extraordinary chancel arches in Suffolk, a great dark wood casement surmounted by a set of arms, offset slightly in the east wall. Beyond, the effect is startling, and rather wonderful. In 1745, the year of the Jacobite Rising, the chancel here was rebuilt in the style of a Classical City of London church, a striking counterpoint to the ancient Gothic space to the west. The black and white marbled floor leads to curved, three-sided rails surrounding a sweet little holy table, the decalogue boards flanked by Moses and Aaron behind. White light pours through high windows. Such rational elegance! There could be no greater statement of the power of Protestant triumphalism at that troubled time.

 

Stepping back westwards, the nave suddenly lifts high above the space you have just left, and is crowned above the clerestories by a gorgeous late 15th Century hammerbeam roof. The arcades stride away westwards, a simple classical casement in the tower arch reflecting back the mood of the chancel. High above are the arms of George II, contemporary with the rebuilding, and so they probably once hung above the chancel arch. And what a statement they would have made. Charles Stuart's attempted coup d'état of 1745 was a romantic fancy, and had no real chance of succeeding, any more than his grandfather James II was ever likely to have held onto his throne more than half a century earlier.

 

And perhaps things would not have turned out well if it had succeeded. The power of the protestant London merchant classes, which had formerly backed Cromwell, had also guaranteed the success of the Dutch William of Orange's takeover of the English throne in 1688. That power was now deeply invested in the Hanovers. The Church of England, the regular Army and the Royal Navy, those three constant and essential arms of government, reacted to the uprising by forging a consensus which would be the key to the imagination of the people, a notion of identity which would at last reinvent and create the British as a Nation. Nothing would bend it from its path now, and it would reach its apotheosis on the fields of Flanders and the Somme. But that was all in the future.

 

Meanwhile, in the rural backwaters, the Catholic aristocracy was little shaken by the events of '45. Perhaps they stirred, and perhaps they read their newspapers with a frisson. But after all, they were only just awakening from the long years of penal silence. Although the Old Religion was still technically outlawed, they were no longer persecuted, and many had begun to retake their place in the national hierarchy. It was a compromise, but an ordered and easy one.

 

But what of ordinary Catholics in England, Scotland and, most of all, Ireland? What of their hopes? They had been dashed along with the throne of James II at the Battle of the Boyne, and were now trampled with the troops of Charles Stuart into the blood-soaked fields of Culloden. No one had expected the Jacobites to succeed, but the fury with which the rebellion was put down had been startling. Those hopes would turn to a hurt, and it would echo uncomfortably for the emerging British State down the next two and a half centuries.

 

There are lots of little red squirrels around, but this is the first time I've had a grey squirrel in my yard. I thought he was lovely and fun as he dashed around, checked everything out, and then tried to squish himself against a tree so I wouldn't find him. I haven't seen him since, but maybe he'll come to show off that gorgeous tail, again. It's a short series, even though Flickr doesn't seem to like those.

Today was a classic example of setting out with certain hopes for what I wanted to achieve and having them dashed in multiple ways!

 

I wanted to drop by the Hoover buildings in Perivale and do a little revisit - I went there back in 2014 but wanted to grab something new with the tilt shift lens.

 

When I got there I found a builder working on the paving slabs directly in front of my intended viewpoint. Not only that, but there were a couple of women having an extended cigarette break on chairs also in the same area in front of the Canteen Building.

 

Not knowing how long they'd be I thought I'd walk round the block and see what else I could get. I tried a three-shot panorama of the main Hoover Building in all its super-wide glory, and a couple of close up shots, then went round to the Tesco side of the building but that was full of cars and shoppers. By the time I came back to the canteen building there was now a couple getting engagement photos taken in a session right in that same spot I had been trying to use for my image!

 

At that point I gave up the plan and started the journey back home. The photo I'm posting here is the one shot I managed to get when I first arrived, from a side-angle, vaguely using the hedge and shrubbery to hide the cigarette women and builders. Sometimes you have to know when to admit defeat!

100s of House Martin (Delichon urbicum) were around Cresswell village a few weeks back.

 

Youngsters hanging onto the pebble dashed walls hoping for a few final feeds before the long flight south begins

I keep thinking that I will some day get up early, go to some super-scenic location out in the country and take pictures of the glorious sunrise there.

 

Well, that's not going to happen. So this morning when I looked out here at home and saw a pretty good one, I just dashed outside, not fully clothed with no shoes, and took these 2 pictures, buildings and all. There you have it!

I dashed down to the park yesterday afternoon to try and get a few snowflake photos. Got an awful lot of blurry photos, but also maybe two or three that were just about sharp enough. This was the most complete snowflake that came out, but I wasn't sure about it on a black background. Not very Christmasy, so I'll keep a brighter shot of a slightly melted snowflake for a bit closer to Christmas. If you happen to think of it (you know, in between baking, cooking, shopping, wrapping, etc., etc., - yeah, right!), let me know which one you prefer. I just couldn't make up my mind which was my favourite of the two. It was slightly windy and, oh boy, does that make it harder to get anything that is so light and delicate in focus, LOL. I guess I should have taken my tiny, table-top tripod that I tend not to bother with any more. I loved it when I was trying to focus on a certain snowflake and another one with a completely different pattern, gently landed on it or nearby. What a magical world it was : )

 

I had such a lovely morning today - a Christmas get-together with a whole bunch of friends whom I hadn't seen for about a year and nine months!! My out-of-town botanizing trips are always on Fridays, so I've been unable to go these usual weekly get-togethers with friends. What a wonderfully warm, welcoming bunch of people they are - I'm very lucky to know these folks!

 

I have to set my two alarm clocks and my kitchen timer for around 3:50 tomorrow morning - i.e. not all that much later than I normally get to bed! - as I have to be halfway across the city for 6:30 a.m., ready for travelling westwards with a few friends to do the Christmas Bird Count in Canmore (near Banff). Just hope I don't sleep through my alarms! I think it was three years ago that it was -30C on this Canmore Count and five hours of walking in it was not exactly fun : ) No bird photos, but I got some beautiful icicle shots, ha. The 2010 count is the National Audubon Society's 111th annual Christmas Bird Count! Sunday is the Calgary Christmas Bird Count, so it will be another early start.

The Mt. Wilson observatory, located on the outskirts of Los Angeles, California, is one of the very special places in the history of Science. Here, in the 1920s, Edwin Hubble made astronomical observations that led him to discover the concept of the Galaxy. He also discovered that the Universe is expanding. Today, these ideas seem like something that would be found on Page 1 in an introductory textbook on Astronomy, but in Hubble's time they were both revolutionary and controversial.

 

The photo is dominated by light pollution originating in eastern Los Angles County, San Bernardino County, Riverside County, and Orange County. The dashed lines are lights from aircraft circling the nearby Ontario Airport. The observatory dome is bathed in the light of a quarter Moon.

 

Presently, the observatory has limited use for nighttime viewing due to light generated by nearly 15 million human inhabitants. There is, however, a separate observatory with a helioscope that is still used for solar research.

  

EJE 671, which was always one of the best looking 38's near the end, was of course, repainted not too long after this photo. Had all "The J" features, dashed yellow and white sill, silver trucks, and a good Leslie horn. Guess it was cool while it lasted.

Gary, IN.

04-23-15

Truro Cornwall. Night flying was cancelled so I dashed over to Truro to try out the, then, new Kodacolour ASA1000 film I had just managed to get.

The ice dashed any hopes of a motorcycle ride.

Ben and I heard a rustling in the bush. I was just able to raise the camera in time and snap a couple off before she dashed away.

on.fb.me/18S9rVN

The calm after the storm. Hardly a storm but a weird two minutes of light snowfall in a period of three weeks without any daytime rain in Cornwall. My early morning hopes were rapidly dashed as within minutes the icing sugar sprinkling on the roads and rooftops was gone.

St Mary, Shotley, Suffolk

 

The Shotley Peninsula runs like a flame, or a tongue, between the Rivers Stour and Orwell as they sprawl lazily towards the sea. At Shotley Point, the two rivers meet before emptying into the grey North Sea, the great industrial expanse of Felixstowe Docks on the north bank dominating the scene, while prettier Harwich to the south busies itself looking purposeful. In summer, you can stand all day at Shotley Point watching. There is always something to see: the vast container ships bringing Chinese televisions and Vietnamese shoes, the ferries with their cargoes of sleepy Dutch and German motorists, small Arthur Ransomesque yachts speeding out of the Orwell with its marinas, a wherry of London bankers sipping Pimms in the sunshine, wondering where their next bonus is coming from...

 

In winter this is a wild place, the gales from the great German Ocean flattening the hedgerows, the windows of the Bristol Arms rattling in the gusts along the empty streets, the ghosts of HMS Ganges, the Royal Navy Training College, silent now above the mudflats when the tide is out. But this was once a busy place, full of the chatter of young sailors, and during the First World War it was a famous place. Today it has lost its way: it is still one of Suffolk's biggest villages, but its remoteness ill-serves the housing estates which sprawl back towards Erwarton and Chelmondiston. Shotley is a strange place.

 

The setting of this church is also most curious. It is further from the village it serves than any other Suffolk church. Erwarton parish church is closer to Shotley village than Shotley church is. St Mary stands in a tiny, tightly-packed hamlet in the low hills towards Chelmondiston. In fact, this was the original village. The place we now call Shotley was once an outlying fishing hamlet, Shotley Gate. You reach St Mary along one of two narrow lanes.

 

The stubby tower of the church hugs a later raised clerestory, quite out of keeping with each other. If I come here on a hot Summer's day, and climb the steep hill leading up to it, I am always reminded more of the Dordogne than of East Anglia. The graveyard is set on a steep hillside, the huge cranes of Trimley Dock towering precipitously beyond the river below. This graveyard is one of the most haunting in East Anglia, filled with the graves of mostly teenage lads sent out by HMS Ganges to die in accidents and wars. Some of their bodies were brought back for burial, but most often these are mere memorials to young boys lost deep beneath fathoms of filthy, icy water. You think of their happy laughter: climbing onto the bus to go to the pictures in Ipswich, or courting a local girl along one of the narrow, poppy-lined lanes. It is heartbreaking, particularly if you are a parent.

 

Unusually for Suffolk, the south door opens almost onto the street. You step into the light of a wide-aisled nave. The pleasantly cool whitewashed interior seems much larger than is possible from the outside. But the eye is irresistably drawn to one of the most extraordinary chancel arches in Suffolk, a great dark wood casement surmounted by a set of arms, offset slightly in the east wall. Beyond, the effect is startling, and rather wonderful. In 1745, the year of the Jacobite Rising, the chancel here was rebuilt in the style of a Classical City of London church, a striking counterpoint to the ancient Gothic space to the west. The black and white marbled floor leads to curved, three-sided rails surrounding a sweet little holy table, the decalogue boards flanked by Moses and Aaron behind. White light pours through high windows. Such rational elegance! There could be no greater statement of the power of Protestant triumphalism at that troubled time.

 

Stepping back westwards, the nave suddenly lifts high above the space you have just left, and is crowned above the clerestories by a gorgeous late 15th Century hammerbeam roof. The arcades stride away westwards, a simple classical casement in the tower arch reflecting back the mood of the chancel. High above are the arms of George II, contemporary with the rebuilding, and so they probably once hung above the chancel arch. And what a statement they would have made. Charles Stuart's attempted coup d'état of 1745 was a romantic fancy, and had no real chance of succeeding, any more than his grandfather James II was ever likely to have held onto his throne more than half a century earlier.

 

And perhaps things would not have turned out well if it had succeeded. The power of the protestant London merchant classes, which had formerly backed Cromwell, had also guaranteed the success of the Dutch William of Orange's takeover of the English throne in 1688. That power was now deeply invested in the Hanovers. The Church of England, the regular Army and the Royal Navy, those three constant and essential arms of government, reacted to the uprising by forging a consensus which would be the key to the imagination of the people, a notion of identity which would at last reinvent and create the British as a Nation. Nothing would bend it from its path now, and it would reach its apotheosis on the fields of Flanders and the Somme. But that was all in the future.

 

Meanwhile, in the rural backwaters, the Catholic aristocracy was little shaken by the events of '45. Perhaps they stirred, and perhaps they read their newspapers with a frisson. But after all, they were only just awakening from the long years of penal silence. Although the Old Religion was still technically outlawed, they were no longer persecuted, and many had begun to retake their place in the national hierarchy. It was a compromise, but an ordered and easy one.

 

But what of ordinary Catholics in England, Scotland and, most of all, Ireland? What of their hopes? They had been dashed along with the throne of James II at the Battle of the Boyne, and were now trampled with the troops of Charles Stuart into the blood-soaked fields of Culloden. No one had expected the Jacobites to succeed, but the fury with which the rebellion was put down had been startling. Those hopes would turn to a hurt, and it would echo uncomfortably for the emerging British State down the next two and a half centuries.

 

...They’ll never get over this for their lifetime

All their wishes will be dashed upon those cliffs

so let’s be strong for you and me the night is opening

Our angels are falling and they will warm us

She asked right now right here

I’m feeling so (mad dear)

 

~Tori Amos

I was clearly spotted (no hiding as I dashed out in bare feet and pajamas, camera in hand) - but the deer were not particularly bothered by my presence.

And then the purple girl dashed off to the side, clapping her hands as the pink girl rushed in, striking a different pose.

 

"Beware of us that make no sound, that hide and seek and dash and leap!", Riddle shouted, also to the clapping beat.

Here is another Wisconsin winter memory. This was one of the last mornings in November of 2015. I was riding with my Mom to work when I was visiting. She's always so good about letting me make photos at inconvenient times! I jumped out of the car with my camera in hand and dashed to the railroad tracks to capture this moment quickly, so that I did not make my Mom late to work! This is to the memory of a beautiful cold wintry morning with my most wonderful Mom!

Protected by Full Copyright: Please do not use this image without my written permission in any way, doing so is a violation of federal law.

 

If you steal this photo, rest assured, you won't be pleased with the price you WILL pay for it, where copyright infringement can result in penalties of up to $150,000 per infringement (17 U.S.C. 504) and where criminal penalties include up to 10 years in prison. Maximum penalties will be sought for any copyright infringement of my work

__________________

This photo was recently STOLEN and used for commercial and for profit purposes this person is SO Busted!!

__________________

Thank you Don for your help with this photo!

 

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When I photographed this house, now a few years ago, I stood in the middle of the road to get this angle. As I was photographing an uneasy feeling came over me that someone was watching me. I dashed to my car where my husband was waiting for me. When I jumped in the car I told him that I felt like someone was watching me from inside the house and I wanted to leave in case the owners called the police. I had no idea that it might be the original owner that was watching me. lol Could it be that Joel T. Case, the architect that built this house and lived in it for some time decided to stay? ;-)

 

Note:

 

No shadow at all was added to the tower window. The shadow is present exactly as it is here in the original photo. I have added an enlarged crop of the tower window below for your review.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Following is a history of Castle Largo, other grand homes on Federal Hill, as well as the owners of many of these homes that were entrepreneurs, inventors, philanthropists and indeed the builders of city of Bristol!!!

 

~~~Note: Scroll down to the comments to view photos of some of the homes that are located on Federal Hill and discussed in the following history~~~~

 

As stated, the architect of this home was Joel T. Case. He was likely the most prolific architect of the Federal Hill region of Bristol Connecticut of the time and certainly built many of the architectural (sp) jewels that adorn Federal Hill. Castle Largo is the most unique and interesting home that was built by Joel T. Case where he lived for a brief time. Bristol was known nationwide and likely worldwide as one of the largest clock manufacturing towns of this time. Many of the most prestigious of industrialists and entrepreneurs lived in genius architectural homes on Federal Hill. To name a few, the Walter Ingraham house, which can be found on my stream, was the home of the founder of the largest clock manufacturing company previously mentioned. The Dewitt Page mansion is also on Federal Hill. Moreover, employees of these entrepreneurs of the time were compensated so well for their work, that one of the grand homes on Federal Hill was owned by a bookkeeper of one of the manufacturing businesses. (To think, during this era, one could be a mere office worker that kept books, with no need for an accounting degree to handle the finances of these large businesses, and quite successfully indeed in order to afford a grand Victorian home in Bristol's exclusive neighborhood of the wealthy!!!!)

  

Dewitt Page was the second President of New Departure, that was mostly known for manufacturing G.M. Motors parts. However, another Bristol genius and entrepreneur, Rockwell was the founder of New Departure when he patented the ball bearing. Dewitt Page and Rockwell were rivals that always attempted to outdo each other. Rockwell donated many acres of land to what became Rockwell park in Bristol, along with a substantial amount of money to maintain it. Page in turn, donated a substantial portion of Federal Hill which in turn became Page Park. The two parks are beautiful treasures of Bristol that remain today. However, as it goes corrupt politicians have not only allowed the parks to fall into disrepair, far worse the former Mayor of Bristol used the Rockwell Park lagoon to use as fill for rubbish that was the result of a so called beautification project in Bristol. Ironically, Dewitt Page during his time saved the city of Bristol from bankruptcy by loaning the city of Bristol a substantial amount of money with the condition that the city appoint professional financial managers to secure the city's financial stability. As I recall, the entrepreneurs of this time also paid for Bristol Hospital, Bristol High School (also located on Federal Hill) many bridges and roads in the town, to name many community functions and necessities that these men fulfilled for the town of Bristol. An interesting fact is that Rockwell was removed from New Departure, as the President and Founder of his company by his brother-in-law Dewitt when Rockwell wanted to use capital from the company to finance his invention of the Yellow cab in NYC. Dewitt staunchly opposed this business venture and was successful in having Rockwell removed from the company.

  

Thus, it is my firm belief that it is a complete fallacy and we are flat out brainwashed to believe that we need government to fill these needs. It is sad that as a rule people in general, have little knowledge of history, even of their own towns, and in turn a very short memory of the fact that not so long ago, most of all that government steals taxpayers money for with a claim that it is essential for public needs like schools and roads were functions that entrepreneurs fulfilled in their communities... before government imposed huge government regulations and taxation on businesses????? ha ha But of course, it is self-serving for politicians to have control of this money that they did not earn to squander and waste, as well as give them great power where I feel most of them have ego issues to such a degree that many likely could be classified as Psychologically disturbed. Though, somehow American's don't question any of this, and they keep voting for the same failures time and time again.

 

I diverted of course... A few other entrepreneurs and mansions that remain on Federal Hill are Chimney Crest, and a neighboring grand mansion, one formerly owned by Wallace Barnes and the other by one of one of his brothers. Likewise, Wallace Barnes started with a very small manufacturing business and went on to become one of the largest spring manufacturers in the country. I actually worked for a time at Wallace Barnes as a teen. The seat belt was invented at Wallace Barnes in Bristol. I made gun parts for the Mossberg gun which was responsible for discharging the bullet and the contract was for the military; (as I was always told my quality of the part had to be PERFECT since if the bullet did not discharge a man's life would be lost in the military.) I made a part that was a release for a parachute, Ford cams that were an essential part for car brakes. parts for Phillips light bulbs and the list goes on and on. For much of the time I worked there I worked in a department called Aircraft that made parts for the military that were top secret.

 

Thus, the few great men that were inventors and manufacturers that I have mentioned who acquired great wealth during this era in history lived in the communities they prospered from and in turn donated essential needs to the community and the public at large in such a grand way. However, politicians have worked very aggressively to change America's great culture of opportunity with endless benefits to our lives, whey they have even gone so far as to almost obsessively publicly spew their propaganda that American's don't even want to do manufacturing jobs in this country~where men like Rockwell, Page, Dewitt, Ingraham, and of course Joel T. Case that built many of their homes many others who accomplished far more than any politician would even care too, must be rolling in their graves.

 

Of course, Joel T. Case that built many of their homes must be included in this list where by the way, I have found no record that Case was an educated architect, and surely did not hold any government licenses to build homes. On the contrary, through my research, some sources have stated that Case did not begin his career as an architect. He simply had a talent and genius for building homes. Today, government would completely shut down Case from doing business and likely throw him in jail if he continued to build the homes that he did without following extensive government mandates, no need to list of course the requirement for licenses, permits, inspections etc where today it would simply never be possible for the homes that Case built to come into existence.

    

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Ralph Waldo Emerson. The happiest man is he who learns from nature the lesson of worship.

 

Henry David Thoreau, Walden: Or, Life in the Woods: We need the tonic of wildness...At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature.

"Dreams of saving money by producing milk at home were dashed when the cows got together and each demanded their own room."

 

[ Caption Credit to NJBearCub1]

------

Mootiplicity 3 is a response to my other photos, Many Kows and Mootiplicity 2.

I looked outside from the window at 8.15 this morning (how precise again!).

"Wow!!!! The tree branches are white!!!!!" ...and it took a few second to realise that they are covered with hoarfrost/ice. What happened next? Of course I dashed out into the garden with my camera (I should name it :-))) and took lots of shots.

 

I couldn't stand the cold so long, as I noticed I didn't wear gloves. So I went inside, checked the shots (oh, dear! lots of out of focus shots!!!!!), changed the lens (from 90mm macro to 60mm macro), wore my gloves, and dashed out again with BIG HOPE to catch at least few very nice shots :-)))

 

......Inside again......OMG......no, absolutely NO SHOTS good enough for the Flickr. Maybe this one is the best focused one. Perhaps I should start using a tripod more often......

 

BTW I managed to retrieve the saucepan from my icy pond :-) Inside the pan there was half an inch thick ice there though :-)))) Just let you know :-)

 

Explore No.182 : #14

Front Page No.12

SEX, PHYSICS

and

the EVOLUTION of MAN

 

by Michael Toke

 

@ MILK GLASS Co.

1247 Dundas Street West

June 21 - July 15

opening June 21, 7pm

 

SEX, PHYSICS and the EVOLUTION of MAN

I remember when I was a kid I went around "the townhouses" asking all the housewives if I could have the cardboard their new pantyhose were wrapped around; hot pressed and glossy on one side, dead flat on the other, rounded corners and perfect for drawing in this skipping dashed way with the new black marker I had discovered. These new EVOLUTION of MAN drawings remind me of the joy I had drawing when I was young and the hopeful wide eyed vision I had for the world and Canada. Canada a beacon of light and progress guiding the world into the future was written on my face. I don't see that look anymore or better to say I see people trying to keep an idea of that face, but glimpsed underneath I see contortions and ticks at the way the world is; an exasperated wince quickly covered up as if to reel in an escaping beast of disillusionment and disbelief.

These new drawings are on a painted fresco like surface, dead flat, skipped and dashed with archival ink they are meant to be studies for an envisioned visage of what we hide underneath our beautiful ones.

 

The EVOLUTION OF MAN series is accompanied by works from the 2001 "Visions of Photonic Love" exhibition and other related works about the emergence of light at the beginning of the universe and its connection with the orgasm. These works arose from interviewed discussions with physicist Dr. Howard K. C. Yee at the University of Toronto and the subsequent video "notes on a nameless film".

"an attempt to describe the indescribable boundary between the known and unknown universe through interview and visual obliteration; at certain levels of complexity all visualization degrades into mathematics" was written on the DVD sleeve.

This video was awarded "One of the Best Filmmakers Under 25 in Canada Award" which came with a $2500 prize and a trip to Ottawa to meet with the Governor General and Minister of Arts and Culture with 10 other so awarded filmmakers. It was to theirs and my great disappointment to inform them that I was 37 at the time. The exhibition that was derived from this video was originally showed at Edward Day Gallery and then expanded for the Scope Art Fair in New York. Only 4 of these black works remain from the original exhibitions with some studies, other related works and the instigating videos they form a lovely stage backdrop of lust wandering for meaning, reason and purpose in the universe. They were originally accompanied with the phrase:

"Out of the blackness emerged joyous information to wet our lips; but in cruelty its beauty only left us wanting for more as its image slowly faded away."

 

I believe to approach hard strange and elusive ideas you must use peripheral vision and Newtonian half measures; random cultivation is the path to expression and enlightenment.

 

www.facebook.com/events/442034675821289

 

www.flickr.com/photos/michaeltoke

 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=_6bkOLUq760&list=UUK2Rrz06QU5...

This will be the location of a roundabout and new new road that will link Mountsorrel Lane with Loughborough Road - hence providing easy access to the A6 from Mountsorrel. The new road is financed by the house builder William Davis as part of their obligation for planning application for many, many new houses.

 

As a cycle user of this road I dread the future. The extra motorised traffic and navigating a roundabout on a hill that most cyclists crawl up. Still, nothing stays the same.

 

"When I was a girl this was all fields..."

What with some nice weather hitting us here in the uk last weekend I whipped off the BBQ cover ready to clean the grills down and noticed this little fella, stuck in a hole in the side table, he'd (I am assuming he) had some some reason decided to try and get through one of the holes, but had got stuck. I quickly dashed indoors and grabbed my Pro2, with newly acquired 60mm Macro and did the only thing I could, took photos.

 

After I had had my fill I did manage to release him, I gently pushed him back through and he flew away, much to the annoyance of my wife and daughter who declared it would now find someone to sting as it was clearly annoyed. I thought it was the least I could do as he'd been so patient as I messed about with camera settings. Ha ha.

 

Xpr0 2, 1/750 @ f/4, ISO 200, 60mm Macro

I was up very early this morning and had already uploaded some nice photos I took at my last visit to VINS. Then came the scratching at my window! I kid you NOT!! This little girl stands on her hind legs and scratches at my kitchen window like a Puppy dog!!

We have developed quite a competitive relationship over the last few days ---- me being the loser so far, but I am a Dark Horse, and determined not to give up! I WILL catch this little Cutie INSIDE my home --- but in the mean-time I am pretty much acting like a lunatic -- leaving the window open for periods of time that make me uncomfortably freezing. OK, not THAT long -- I am an avid environmentalist after all and don't believe in wasting energy -- plus I don't like being cold.

AND now she will sometimes actually sit still at the new feeder trays I set up right outside the window --- even when I come over and open the window right in front of her, like this morning's pic just below. But I swear she does enjoy teasing me --- and anytime she has dashed in & out, I have lost the game of "Catch Me If You Can" (with your camera)

Silly, fun, and totally entertaining throughout these dismal, ICY, hopefully almost over, Winter days!

 

I planted illusive dreams

Wielding castles in the air,

Harvesting dashed hopes

 

My world, a relic,

My hopes, unnavigated,

The deity of my dreams

A fantastic, float-some image

 

Nothing actualized

From my deluge of desire,

Couldn't cast a soul

With my far aspirations.

 

In my solitude

I have been playing with flames,

Left with cinders, in the end

- Songs of Tagore

The shot that nearly did not happen.

Broke the tool by dropping it on the ground, dashed home to fix it.

Very windy, but in the end did the shot.........

The beach looked like a Santa Claus convention when I first arrived but at 11 am hundreds dashed into the sea and it became a sea of red bobble hats.

With the changing of seasons comes the flocks of Juncos. This Slate-colored Junco dashed to a safe perch among the red-brown hues of this oak tree when I came along the path. Because northern Wisconsin falls on the border of their summer and winter ranges, we see a lot more of this common bird during migration as they gather into larger flocks for winter. The Juncos are ground feeders and fly to and from the ground to close cover in large groups. Taken in Tomahawk, Wisconsin. (Best viewed large.)

Truro Cornwall. Night flying was cancelled so I dashed over to Truro to try out the, then, new Kodacolour ASA1000 film I had just managed to get.

The Inner Rock (without the green perch) is the rock which the "Iolaire" struck on New Year''s morning 1919.

1st January 1919

The loss of His Majesty’s Yacht Iolaire in the early hours of New Year’s Day 1919 is undoubtedly the most tragic single occurrence to befall the combined island of Lewis and Harris.

 

In all 174 Lewismen and seven Harrismen were drowned at the Beasts of Holm in sight of the Stornoway harbour lights with many bodies not recovered.

  

Thanks to the bravery of John F. Macleod from the Port of Ness most of the survivors got ashore from the line he secured to the rocks. Despite the proximity of the shore a gale had blown up as the yacht approached Stornoway and the location of the wreck was an exposed one leaving the sea a cauldron that experienced swimmers could not survive in. Men were dashed on rocks and the lifeboats, which were launched, were quickly swamped in the darkness of the night.

 

Although there was a radio aboard, the Telegraphist could not generate power to transmit due to water in the batteries and the rockets fired, although spotted by the Stornoway Royal Navy base named Iolaire, did not generate the speedy rescue that was necessary before all was lost. When the yacht’s lights failed those left aboard must have felt a shiver as they clung perilously to the railings, with the roar of the waves crashing on the rocks and the rending of the hull on the Beasts piercing their very souls.

 

Out of the crew of 27 there were seven survivors who joined the rescued islanders on the road to Anderson Young’s farm for shelter once it was realised nothing could be done after the vessel heeled over leaving nothing but her masts exposed.

 

As dawn rose, one sailor, Donald Morrison from 7 Knockaird, was rescued from a mast, shortly after another mast held onto by three others had been broken by the storm.

I went to go for my Mindful Walk this evening, walked for a few metres and noticed how wonderful the sky was. So I dashed back inside, got my camera and started out again. I managed to get a couple of shots off before the sky dimmed. Happy Halloween!

Expecting storms to roll in, so I dashed out to the tree sculpture to put another coat of sealer on the base of the tree. The sealer is essentially varnish meant to protect the tree from rotting out once in the ground.

 

Overall a very busy day, very exhausting day, but got a lot done!

 

Theme: Re-Creation

Year Twelve Of My 365 Project

Dashed out to the park near to home last night just as the sky was thickening up for a good downpour. I just missed the sun before and waited around a bit before 5 minutes of sun appeared and I grabbed this HDR of Thorley Church in the distance.

Having dashed up the WCML, Virgin Trains no. 390119 "Virgin Warrior" waits to leave Birmingham New Street with 9K94, the 2015 (act. dep. 2020) to Crewe. This was the 1843 from Euston, and was held up a bit due to a slower running express ahead of it, meaning that the 10-minute wait at New Street was cut down by about a third.

A beautiful sunny morning brought word of IAIS 513 leading an eastbound. However, my hopes were quickly dashed when the crew tied it down at Rockdale. Still worth taking a shot for the record.

This week has been quite dark and rainy so far, so when the sun peeked out a little, Lad and I dashed outside for a few photos.

Sony A7, Chinon 55mm 1.7

18th June 2018. After waiting at Crewe for The Lakes Express, I dashed to Platform Six [although it may have been Platform Nine as I can not remember] to catch the next Glasgow bound train. The plan was to catch the Glasgow train which would over-take The Lakes Express and get off my train in Lancaster. Giving me time to compose myself before the double header came steaming through the station.

 

I have always preferred railway stations with their old names as it gives whichever station more character. Lancaster Station on the West Coast Mail Line used to be called Lancaster Castle because it is right next door to the Castle in Lancaster. It gives the station a lot more character than just calling it Lancaster.

 

Steaming through Lancaster Castle a lot faster than I expected is The Lakes Express. Piloting the train is LMS 5MT Black 5 4-6-0 No.45212. While tucked inside [taking it easy] is LNER A3 4-6-2 No.60103 Flying Scotsman.

Shot on iPhone 6.

Our adventure along the Great Ocean Road continued today. This morning we dashed up to Lorne so Anna could swim laps in, what she assured us, was the coldest pool ever. From the words she mouthed as she waved at one of the ends, I'm happy to accept her verdict on the temperature. Meanwhile, Meg and I had pancakes and a walk on the beach. Everyone was happy with that start to the day.

This, incidentally, is Meg boldly going forward to test how cold the water was - her verdict was that the ocean was colder than Anna's lap pool

Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces.

 

Sigmund Freud

 

Paris, reflection at Grand Palais

A visit to Corfe Castle today and spotted this steam train at the station. Dashed over and started taking photos when my husband said "I think you're getting in their way"; imagine my surprise when I turned around to find a load of togs (around 50) in high vis jackets behind me!

 

The London and South Western Railway T9 class was a class of 66 4-4-0 steam locomotive designed for express passenger work by Dugald Drummond and introduced to services on the LSWR in 1899. Just one example, 30120 (pictured above) has been preserved.

According to the Hebrew Bible, Esther was a Jewish queen of the Persian king Ahasuerus. Ahasuerus is traditionally identified with Xerxes I during the time of the Achaemenid empire. Her story is the basis for the celebration of Purim in Jewish tradition.

 

As for her backstory, Esther's an orphan who was raised by her righteous cousin, Mordecai. When the king came looking for young virgins to possibly fill the role of his new queen, Esther made sure to jump into line. She wins favor with the people in the harem and eventually with the king himself, becoming queen. Moreover, Mordecai helps uncover a plot to kill the king, allowing Esther to warn him in time. This earns him some Brownie points as well.

 

But all is not well in the king's courts—treachery is afoot. When Mordecai refuses to bow down to the evil counselor Haman in the street, the evil, (probably) mustache-twisting counselor decides to engineer a plot to murder all the Jews in the Persian Empire. The plot basically involves Haman going to the king and saying, "I think we should kill all the Jews in the Persian Empire." And the king says (to paraphrase him), "Alright."

 

Haman walks away, twisting his mustache some more (probably), glad that the king has cottoned to his genocidal plans. The king doesn't know that his own queen is Jewish, because Esther's been keeping it secret. But the threat of the Jews' imminent demise kicks Esther and Mordecai into action. Mordecai goes and wails outside the palace gates while wearing sackcloth, and Esther fasts for three days before visiting the king.

 

Esther is worried the king will execute her for visiting him unannounced, but—to the contrary—he is mellow and pleased. He offers to give her whatever she wants. She asks him to have a banquet for her and Haman the next day. Then, after that banquet, she asks for another one on the following day. Meanwhile, Haman is excited about the massacre that's about to happen. He builds a huge gallows to hang Mordecai.

 

But his hopes are dashed the following morning, when the king—remembering how Mordecai saved his life—orders Haman to honor Mordecai and lead him in a parade through the town (which Haman very reluctantly does). At the second banquet, Esther asks the king to punish Haman for trying to kill her and her people—and the king does. Haman is hanged to death on the same gallows he had built for Mordecai (ironic, indeed).