The American President continues to violate basic notions of decency while failing to handle the Coronavirus with any kind of skill, compassion or understanding. His stumbling, incompetent response amounts to negligent homicide. And this week he commuted the criminal sentence of his buddy, Roger Stone. Lawbreakers, grifters and incompetents abound.

 

Some regimes need changing

 

Some regimes

Just like diapers

Trash

Or dirty laundry

Need changing

From time to time

Smelling bad

And reeking of corruption

 

They should be impeached

Voted out of office

Sent packing

And banned from Twitter

Fox News

And Fake News of all kinds

 

They should be sent into exile

Like Napoleon

Or stranded on some desert island

Like Robinson Crusoe

Unplugged

And deprived of all pleasures

Like golf and cheeseburgers

Strippers and porn stars

Silenced

Once and for all

Muzzled

Gagged

And muted

Put out of commission

And hushed

Finally

 

Or jailed

 

© Jamie McKenzie, all rights reserved

You will find more of my poems and songs here

and in The Storm in Its Passing and Flights of Fancy.

 

My songs are at

www.youtube.com/user/edtech2008/videos

the weather has been preventing training for weeks now. i knew something had to be done when i put on an oven mitt the other day and got bit in the hand. she realized her mistake pretty quick and had the decency to look rather abashed about it. however, i made a point of asking my friend to bring a bite sleeve along for our hike later that day. i rarely get pictures of my girl working, so here's one of her having a little nibble.

What is 2018 going to bring us ? Hard to predict.

Personally, I wish good health to all.

Politically I wish for the removal of the gang of criminals at the helm of my country, although I am aware that would be just a first step towards rebuilding civic decency and far more than that needs to be done.

Socially I wish for more human interactivity among us and less social media(tion). Remember how good it was getting together and doing things together ? I still do.

Photographically, I wish for good light and at least six remarkable photos in the new year. (yes you heard right: six. And that's a lot already, believe me.)

There are several other things I wish for, in the New Year, but I'll keep them to myself for now. Perhaps we can discuss them, face to face, next time we get together.

Peace and love to all.

Tirukalukundram

And they were in their best saris, going to another village marriage as poongal months, rice-harvesting, means at the same that the dowry is saved from the crop.

 

Often, when people are invited, half of the village here on the countryside goes as many are related and to preserve their cultural decency, women goes along women by transport, on busses and here on a local farmer's lorry, still waiting for some more to join ?

 

Taken at a small village in between Thirukalikundram and Mamallapuram, the youngest spot in the center, surrounded by the whole generation from young to old.

 

(PS no way that a Tamil would even think at taking of photo of women as he is supposed to know the cultural rule not to bother other women ... a white stranger can, he is innocent :), maybe a very common sight for Tamiliens but not for the outer world in the West).

 

2006-12-12

Canon EOS 5D, 16-35mm f/2.8L USM, RAW, ISO-200

Exposure: f/10.0, 1/160 seconds, 21mm

oochappan ©®

Please, no logo's in your comment

Dutch postcard by Foto archief Film en Toneel. Photo: Metro Goldwyn Mayer.

 

American actor Gregory Peck (1916-2003) was one of the most popular film stars from the 1940s to the 1960s. Peck received five nominations for Academy Award for Best Actor and won once – for his performance as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird (1962). He almost always played courageous, nobly heroic good guys who saw injustice and fought it. Among his best known films are Spellbound (1945), The Yearling (1946), Gentleman's Agreement(1947), Roman Holiday (1953), The Guns of Navarone (1961), and Cape Fear (1962).

 

Eldred Gregory Peck was born in 1916 in La Jolla, California (now in San Diego). His parents were Bernice Mary (Ayres) and Gregory Pearl Peck, a chemist and druggist in San Diego. His parents divorced when he was five years old. An only child, he was sent to live with his grandmother. He never felt he had a stable childhood. His fondest memories are of his grandmother taking him to the cinema every week and of his dog, which followed him everywhere. Peck's father encouraged him to take up medicine. He studied pre-med at UC-Berkeley and, while there, got bitten by the acting bug and decided to change the focus of his studies. He enrolled in the Neighborhood Playhouse in New York and debuted on Broadway after graduation. His debut was in Emlyn Williams' play 'The Morning Star' (1942). By 1943, he was in Hollywood, where he debuted in the RKO film Days of Glory (Jacques Tourneur, 1944). Stardom came with his next film, The Keys of the Kingdom (John M. Stahl, 1944), for which he was nominated for an Oscar. Tony Fontana at IMDb: "Peck's screen presence displayed the qualities for which he became well known. He was tall, rugged and heroic, with a basic decency that transcended his roles." He appeared opposite Ingrid Bergman in Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound (1945) as an amnesia victim accused of murder. In The Yearling (Clarence Brown, 1946), he was again nominated for an Oscar and won the Golden Globe. He was especially effective in Westerns and appeared in such varied fare as David O. Selznick's critically blasted Duel in the Sun (King Vidor, 1946), the somewhat better received Yellow Sky (William A. Wellman, 1948) and the acclaimed The Gunfighter (Henry King, 1950). He was nominated again for the Academy Award for his roles in Gentleman's Agreement (Elia Kazan, 1947), which dealt with anti-Semitism, and Twelve O'Clock High (Henry King, 1949), a story of high-level stress in an Air Force bomber unit in World War II. In 1947, Peck, along with Dorothy McGuire, David O'Selznick and Mel Ferrer, founded the La Jolla Playhouse, located in his hometown, and produced many of the classics there. Due to film commitments, he could not return to Broadway but whet his appetite for live theatre on occasion at the Playhouse, keeping it firmly established with a strong, reputable name over the years.

 

With a string of hits to his credit, Gregory Peck made the decision to only work in films that interested him. He continued to appear as the heroic, larger-than-life figures in such films as Captain Horatio Hornblower (Raoul Walsh, 1951) with Virginia Mayo, and Moby Dick (John Huston, 1956) with Richard Basehart. He worked with Audrey Hepburn in her debut film, Roman Holiday (William Wyler, 1953). While filming The Bravados (Henry King, 1958), he decided to become a cowboy in real life, so he purchased a vast working ranch near Santa Barbara, California - already stocked with 600 head of prize cattle. In the early 1960s, he gave a powerful performance as Captain Keith Mallory in The Guns of Navarone (J. Lee Thompson, 1961) opposite David Niven and Anthony Quinn. The film was one of the biggest box-office hits of that year. Peck finally won the Oscar, after four nominations, for his performance as lawyer Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird (Robert Mulligan, 1962). He also appeared in two darker films than he usually made, Cape Fear (J. Lee Thompson, 1962) opposite Robert Mitchum, and Captain Newman, M.D. (David Miller, 1963) with Tony Curtis, which dealt with the way people live. The financial failure of Cape Fear (1962) ended his company, Melville Productions. After making Arabesque (Stanley Donen, 1966) with Sophia Loren, Peck withdrew from acting for three years in order to concentrate on various humanitarian causes, including the American Cancer Society. In the early 1970s, he produced two films, The Trial of the Catonsville Nine (Gordon Davidson, 1972) and The Dove (Charles Jarrott, 1974), when his film career stalled. He made a comeback playing, somewhat woodenly, Ambassador Robert Thorn in the horror film The Omen (Richard Donner, 1976) with Lee Remick. After that, he returned to the bigger-than-life roles he was best known for, such as MacArthur (Joseph Sargent, 1977) and the infamous Nazi war criminal Dr. Josef Mengele in the huge hit The Boys from Brazil (Franklin J. Schaffner, 1978) with Laurence Olivier and James Mason. In the 1980s, he moved into television with the miniseries The Blue and the Gray (Andrew V. McLaglen, 1982) in which he played Abraham Lincoln, and The Scarlet and the Black (Jerry London, 1983) with Christopher Plummer and John Gielgud. In 1991, he appeared in the remake of his 1962 film, playing a different role, in Martin Scorsese's Cape Fear (1991). He was also cast as the progressive-thinking owner of a wire and cable business in Other People's Money (Norman Jewison, 1991), starring Danny DeVito. In 1967, Peck received the Academy's Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award. He was also been awarded the US Presidential Medal of Freedom. Always politically progressive, he was active in such causes as anti-war protests, workers' rights, and civil rights. In 2003, Peck's portrayal of Atticus Finch was named the greatest film hero of the past 100 years by the American Film Institute, only two weeks before his death. Atticus beat out Indiana Jones, who was placed second, and James Bond who came third. Gregory Peck died in 2003 in Los Angeles, California. He was 87. Peck was married twice. From 1942 till 1955, he was married to Greta Kukkonen. They had three children: Jonathan Peck (1944-1975), Stephen Peck (1946) and Carey Paul Peck (1949). His second wife was Veronique Passani, whom he met at the set of Roman Holliday. They married in 1955 and had two children: Tony Peck (1956) and Cecilia Peck (1958). The couple remained together till his death.

 

Sources: Tony Fontana (IMDb), and IMDb.

 

And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

Vintage postcard, no. O2. Photo: Sam Lévin.

 

French actress Brigitte Bardot (1934) died today, 28 December 2025, at the age of 91. In the 1950s, she was the sex kitten of the European film industry. BB starred in 48 films, performed in numerous musical shows, and recorded 80 songs. After her retirement in 1973, she established herself as an animal rights activist and made vegetarianism sexy.

 

Brigitte Bardot was born in Paris in 1934. Her father, Louis Bardot, had an engineering degree and worked with his father in the family business. Her mother, Ann-Marie Mucel, was 14 years younger than Brigitte's father, and they married in 1933. Brigitte's mother encouraged her daughter to take up music and dance. At the age of 13, she entered the Conservatoire Nationale de Danse to study ballet. By the time she was 15, Brigitte was trying a modelling career and found herself in May 1949 on the cover of the French magazine Elle. Her incredible beauty was readily apparent, and Brigitte was noticed by Roger Vadim, then an assistant to the film director Marc Allegrét. Vadim was infatuated with Bardot and encouraged her to start working as a film actress. BB was 18 when she debuted in the comedy Le Trou Normand / Crazy for Love (Jean Boyer, 1952). In the same year, she married Vadim. Brigitte wanted to marry him when she was 17, but her parents quashed any marriage plans until she turned 18. In April 1953, she attended the Cannes Film Festival, where she received massive media attention. She soon was every man's idea of the girl he'd like to meet in Paris. From 1952 to 1956, she appeared in seventeen films. Her films were generally lightweight romantic dramas in which she was cast as an ingénue or siren, often with an element of undress. In 1953, she made her first US production, Un acte d'amour / Act of Love (Anatole Litvak, 1953) with Kirk Douglas, but she continued to make films in France.

 

Roger Vadim was not content with the light fare his wife was offered. He felt Brigitte Bardot was being undersold. Looking for something more like an art film to push her as a serious actress, he showcased her in Et Dieu créa la femme / ...And God Created Woman (Roger Vadim, 1956). This film, about an immoral teenager in a respectable small-town setting, was a smash success on both sides of the Atlantic. Craig Butler at AllMovie: "It's easy enough to say that ...And God Created Woman is much more important for its historical significance than for its actual quality as a film, and that's true to an extent. The immense popularity, due to its willingness to directly embrace an exploration of sex as well as its willingness to show a degree of nudity that was remarkably daring for its day, demonstrated that audiences were willing to view subject matter that was considered too racy for the average moviegoer. This had both positive (freedom to explore, especially for the French filmmakers of the time) and negative (freedom to exploit) consequences, but its impact is undeniable. It's also true that Woman is not a great work of art, not with a story that is ultimately rather thin, some painful dialogue, and an attitude toward its characters and their sexuality that is unclear and inconsistent. Yet Woman is still fascinating, due in no small part to the presence of Brigitte Bardot in the role that made her an international star and sex symbol. She's not demonstrating great acting here, although her performance is actually good and much better than necessary, and her legendary mambo scene at the climax is nothing short of sensational." During the shooting of Et Dieu créa la femme / And God Created Woman (Roger Vadim, 1956), directed by her husband, Brigitte Bardot had an affair with her co-star Jean-Louis Trintignant, who at that time was married to French actress Stéphane Audran. Her divorce from Vadim followed, but they remained friends and collaborated in later work.

 

Et Dieu créa la femme / ...And God Created Woman (Roger Vadim, 1956) helped Brigitte Bardot's international status. The film took the USA by storm, her explosive sexuality being unlike anything seen in the States since the days of the 'flapper' in the 1920s. It gave rise to the phrase 'sex kitten', and fascination with her in America consisted of magazine photographs and dubbed over French films - good, bad or indifferent, her films drew audiences - mainly men - into theatres like lemmings. BB appeared in light comedies like Doctor at Large (Ralph Thomas, 1957) - the third of the British 'Doctor' series starring Dirk Bogarde - and Une Parisienne / La Parisienne (Michel Boisrond, 1957), which suited her acting skills best. However, she was a sensation in the crime drama En cas de malheur / Love is My Profession (Claude Autant-Lara, 1958). Hal Erickson at AllMovie: "This Brigitte Bardot vehicle ran into stiff opposition from the Catholic Legion of Decency, severely limiting its U.S. distribution. Bardot plays a nubile small-time thief named Yvette, who becomes the mistress of influential defence attorney Andre (Jean Gabin). Though Andre can shower Yvette with jewels and furs, he cannot "buy" her heart, and thus it is that it belongs to handsome young student Mazzetti (Franco Interlenghi). Alas, Yvette is no judge of human nature: attractive though Mazzetti can be, he has a dangerous and deadly side. En Cas de Malheur contains a nude scene that has since been reprinted in freeze-frame form innumerable times by both film-history books and girlie magazines." Photographer Sam Lévin's photos contributed considerably to her image of sensuality and slight immorality. One of Lévin's pictures shows Brigitte, dressed in a white corset. It is said that around 1960, postcards with this photograph outsold in Paris those of the Eiffel Tower.

 

Brigitte Bardot divorced Vadim in 195,7 and in 1959 she married actor Jacques Charrier, with whom she starred in Babette s'en va-t-en guerre / Babette Goes to War (Christian-Jaque, 1959). The paparazzi preyed upon her marriage, while she and her husband clashed over the direction of her career

Her films became more substantial, but this brought a heavy pressure of dual celebrity as she sought critical acclaim while remaining a glamour model for most of the world. Vie privée / Private Life (1962), directed by Louis Malle, has more than an element of autobiography in it. James Travers at French Films: "Brigitte Bardot hadn’t quite reached the high point of her career when she agreed to make this film with high-profile New Wave film director Louis Malle. Even so, the pressure of being a living icon was obviously beginning to get to France’s sex goddess, and Vie privée is as much an attempt by Bardot to come to terms with her celebrity as anything else. Malle is clearly fascinated by Bardot, and the documentary approach he adopts for this film reinforces the impression that it is more a biography of the actress than a work of fiction. Of course, it’s not entirely biographical, but the story is remarkably close to Bardot’s own life and comes pretty close to predicting how her career would end." The scene in which, returning to her apartment, Bardot's character is harangued in the elevator by a middle-aged cleaning lady calling her offensive names was based on an actual incident, and is a resonant image of celebrity in the mid-20th century. Soon afterwards, Bardot withdrew to the seclusion of Southern France.

 

Brigitte Bardot's other husbands were German millionaire Playboy Gunter Sachs and right-wing politician Bernard d'Ormale. She is reputed to have had relationships with many other men, including Samy Frey, her co-star in La Vérité / The Truth (Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1960), and musicians Serge Gainsbourg and Sacha Distel. In 1963, Brigitte Bardot starred in Jean-Luc Godard's critically acclaimed film Le Mépris / Contempt (Jean-Luc Godard, 1963) opposite Michel Piccoli. She was also featured along with such notable actors as Alain Delon in Amours célèbres / Famous Love Affairs (Michel Boisrond, 1961) and Histoires extraordinaires /Tales of Mystery (Louis Malle, 1968), Jeanne Moreau in Viva Maria! (Louis Malle, 1965), Sean Connery in Shalako (Edward Dmytryk, 1968), and Claudia Cardinale in Les Pétroleuses / Petroleum Girls (Christian-Jaque, 1971). She participated in various musical shows and recorded many popular songs in the 1960s and 1970s, mostly in collaboration with Serge Gainsbourg, Bob Zagury and Sacha Distel, including 'Harley Davidson', 'Le Soleil De Ma Vie' (the cover of Stevie Wonder's 'You Are the Sunshine of My Life') and the notorious 'Je t'aime... moi non plus'.

 

Brigitte Bardot’s film career showed a steady decline in the late 1960s and early 1970s. In 1973, just before her fortieth birthday, she announced her retirement. She chose to use her fame to promote animal rights. In 1976, she established the Brigitte Bardot Foundation for the Welfare and Protection of Animals. She became a vegetarian and raised three million French francs to fund the foundation by auctioning off jewellery and many personal belongings. For this work, she was awarded the Légion d’honneur in 1984. During the 1990s, she was also outspoken in her criticism of immigration, interracial relationships, Islam in France and homosexuality. Her husband Bernard d'Ormal was a former adviser of the far-right Front National party. Bardot has been convicted five times for 'inciting racial hatred'. More fun is that Bardot is recognised for popularising bikini swimwear, in such early films as Manina / Woman without a Veil (Willy Rozier, 1952), in her appearances at Cannes and in many photo shoots. Bardot also brought into fashion the 'choucroute' ('Sauerkraut') hairstyle (a sort of beehive hairstyle) and gingham clothes after wearing a checkered pink dress, designed by Jacques Esterel, at her wedding to Charrier. The fashions of the 1960s looked effortlessly right and spontaneous on her. Time Magazine: "She is the princess of pout, the countess of come hither. Brigitte Bardot exuded a carefree, naïve sexuality that brought a whole new audience to French films."

 

Sources: Denny Jackson (IMDb), Hal Erickson (AllMovie), Craig Butler (AllMovie), James Travers (French Films), French Films, Wikipedia and IMDb.

 

And please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

This caught me by surprise especially as I should have been aware that these facilities existed having gone to school in Leeson Street and college in Kevin Street. There are two separate entities - a small park and an underground public toilet.

 

When I saw it today I thought that it was an old monument or memorial but upon seeing the entrance I realised that it was an underground public toilet block.

 

In the 1950s and 1960s there were about seventy public toilets in Dublin but all of them have been closed.

 

The underground public toilet block at the junction of Kevin Street and New Street was one of a number that were built in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century in response to an increasing demand for public facilities in the city. Underground facilities such as this were partially hidden from general view in order to satisfy Victorian perceptions of decency. It retains many of its historic features including railings, gates and decorative ventilation shaft.

Belgian postcard by Victoria Biscuits Chocolats, no. 18. Photo: M.G.M. Van Heflin and Lana Turner in The Three Musketeers (George Sidney, 1948), based on the novel by Alexandre Dumas.

 

The Three Musketeers (George Sidney, 1948) is a classic Swashbuckler, starring Gene Kelly as D’Artagnan and Lana Turner as Milady De Winter. Other stars in the cast include Van Heflin, June Allyson, Gig Young, Angela Lansbury, and Vincent Price. It is one of the many, adaptations of the famous French book ‘Les trois mousquetaires’ by Alexandre Dumas père, and possibly the liveliest one, full of acrobatics, galloping horses, flapping cloaks, and sword fights with almost operatic intensity. Dumas’s story is followed quite faithfully, but the creative fantasy is in the theatrical way of depicting it.

 

As in the book: the story of The Three Musketeers (George Sidney, 1948) is set in 1625 in France. The young and inexperienced D'Artagnan (Gene Kelly) leaves his home village in Gascony to become a musketeer in Paris in the service of His Majesty King Louis XIII (Frank Morgan). In his pocket, he has the letter of recommendation from his father (silent film star Robert Warwick), a former musketeer and friend of the current captain of the musketeers, Treville (Reginald Owen). His father has taught him the art of fencing masterfully and gives him the good advice never to let himself be compromised with impunity. He is only too happy to follow this advice. Very soon, before he has even reached Paris, D'Artagnan gets into a confrontation with Rochefort (Ian Keith), Cardinal Richelieu's (Vincent Price) confidant, and his companion, the mysterious Lady de Winter (Lana Turner). At this first opportunity to preserve his honour in battle, he is unceremoniously struck down and robbed by Rochefort's henchmen, and his credentials are also taken from him. Once in Paris, he not only meets his new friends and comrades-in-arms Athos (Van Heflin), Porthos (Gig Young), and Aramis (Robert Coote), but also his landlord's niece, Constance Bonacieux (June Allyson), and falls in love. Many adventures and entanglements lie ahead and in the path of the brave hero D'Artagnan. Driven by his desire to become the king's musketeer and to prove himself in battle, he falls into the clutches of both the queen (Angela and the cardinal, experiences numerous dangerous situations and sometimes needs his new friends to get away at all. Nevertheless, he sets out to travel to England for the Queen's honour, to retrieve a jewellery box given away by the Queen's secret lover, Lord Buckingham (John Sutton), and to prevent Richelieu from plotting. To assist him, he is accompanied by Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, as well as his dull but loyal servant Planchet (Keenan Wynn). Shortly after D'Artagnan's return from England, Constance is kidnapped at the behest of Cardinal Richelieu. D'Artagnan makes a pass at Milady de Winter, discovers a delicate secret, and only just manages to save himself. Constance is freed and taken to safety in England, shortly after which war breaks out, and our four friends are drawn into it. They overhear a conspiratorial meeting between the Cardinal and Lady de Winter in an inn. The latter is to travel to England and kill Buckingham. Planchet also travels to England at D'Artagnan's behest to warn Buckingham. Lady de Winter is convicted and is to be executed. Constance is appointed her guardian. Milady de Winter, after a lengthy psychological duel, manages to take out Constance as well as a guard and Buckingham and then escapes. Athos and D'Artagnan, who wanted to help Constance, arrive too late; after Constance dies in D'Artagnan's arms, they themselves also have only escaped. Back in Paris, the four friends track down Lady de Winter, pronounce the death sentence on her, and have the prisoner executed. During their subsequent escape towards Spain, they are overpowered and arrested. Their fate seems to be sealed, but young D'Artagnan still has one trump card: the Countess's passport, personally sealed and signed by Cardinal Richelieu, with the note that everything the bearer of this letter undertakes will serve the good of the state. The king is not allowed to know the background of this letter - so Richelieu has to give in. Aramis receives permission to take up a clerical office. Porthos is allowed to marry richly, Athos gets his property back and D'Artagnan is to negotiate a peace offer with the enemy England on behalf of France.

 

Among the many American film versions of Alexandre Dumas' The Three Musketeers are the 1914 Film Attractions Co. production, directed by Charles V. Henkel, the 1921 Douglas Fairbanks production, directed by Fred Niblo, the 1935 RKO Radio Pictures, Inc. production, directed by Rowland V. Lee and starring Walter Abel, Paul Lucas and Margot Grahame, Richard Lester's 1974 Twentieth Century-Fox production starring Michael York, Oliver Reed, Richard Chamberlain, and Raquel Welch; and the 1993 Buena Vista release, directed by Stephen Herek and starring Charlie Sheen, Kiefer Sutherland, Chris O'Donnell, and Rebecca de Mornay. This splashy 1948 MGM adaptation of The Three Musketeers was the third sound version and was also the first version in Technicolor. In 1947, a representative of the National Catholic Legion of Decency, an organisation that monitored the interests of the Church in motion pictures, objected to the characterisation of Cardinal Richelieu in the planned MGM adaptation of Dumas' story. In a letter to MGM producer Pandro S. Berman, the organisation stated its objection to the cardinal being portrayed as a "worldly and unscrupulous man" and urged the studio to remove the character from the film. Berman refused to remove the character from the film but promised he would use great caution in all sensitive matters pertaining to the story and in the film, Richelieu is never referred to as Cardinal Richelieu. Berman also indicated that Constance, the married mistress of D'Artagnan in the novel, would be unmarried in the film version. While early sound versions of Three Musketeers eliminated the deaths of Constance and Milady, this adaptation telescopes the novel's events to allow for these tragedies. According to AFI, screenwriter Robert Ardry was displeased with Sidney's irreverent approach to the Dumas story and objected to the spoof elements that were added to the film. A biography of Kelly noted that Belgian fencing champion Jean Heremans, who appears in the film as the cardinal's guard, taught Kelly how to fence. Kelly's biography also noted that during the filming of a bedroom scene, Kelly flung Turner onto a bed with such force that she fell to the ground and suffered a broken elbow. Hal Erickson at AllMovie: “True to form, MGM saw to it that Lana Turner, as Milady, was dressed to the nines and heavily bejeweled for her beheading sequence. Portions of the 1948 Three Musketeers, in black and white, showed up in the silent film-within-a-film in 1952's Singin' in the Rain, which of course also starred Gene Kelly.” The Three Musketeers opened to mostly favourable reviews, with several reviewers commenting on the film's unusual tongue-in-cheek approach. New York Times reviewer Bosley Crowther noted that "more glittering swordplay, more dazzling costumes, more colors or more of Miss Turner's chest have never been seen in a picture than are shown in this one." And added: “Completely fantastic, however, is Miss Turner as the villainess, the ambitious Lady de Winter who does the boudoir business for the boss. Loaded with blond hair and jewels, with twelve-gallon hats and ostrich plumes, and poured into her satin dresses with a good bit of Turner to spare, she walks through the palaces and salons with the air of a company-mannered Mae West.” In 1948, there was an Oscar nomination for Robert Planck in the category Best Cinematography/Colour. Hans J. Wollstein at AllMovie: “The Three Musketeers remains an outrageously entertaining yarn, the Southern California locales perfectly standing in for 17th Century France and England.” And finally, Yvette Banek at her blog In so many words: “Lana Turner is really quite superb in her evilness. So evil that she is even photographed without make-up. Well, as 'without make-up' as MGM got, at any rate. Even then, she is exquisitely beautiful - especially when praying.”

 

Sources: Bosley Crowther (New York Times), Hal Erickson (AllMovie), Yvette Banek (In so many words), AFI, Wikipedia (Dutch, German), and IMDb.

 

And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

Tallinn's Old Town was, in fact, two different towns: the Lower Town â free center of Hanseatic trade â and the Toompea hill, or Upper Town â the place of concentration of feudal power and the influence of distant governments, which Estonians had to obey. The interests of these two parts were different and sometimes mutually exclusive, but they had to coexist somehow even without having any warm feelings towards each other. And if in light of day it was possible to observe decency basically, nighttime awakened the eternal desire to plunder in the nobles of Toompea, or the Upper Town. So, the lower town of merchants and craftsmen had to fence itself off with a stone wall and a powerful gate â and not only from the "outer" lands, but also from its upper neighbor, and every night, just in case, the gate was locked.

 

This is why on the left side of Pikk jalg (Long Leg street) there is a tower with a small oak gate leading to the street Ljuhike jalg (Short Leg street). This door clearly shows who was afraid of whom: the heads of forged rivets, which made it harder to destruct the door, are turned towards the Upper Town, while the deadbolt is on the Lower Town side.

 

The tower was built in 1456 and is reputed to be one of the most haunted buildings in Old Town. The wooden door is original from the 17th century.

 

Tallinn, Estonia, 2018

if you're going to frankenstein your poodle, at least have the decency to color coordinate. everyone knows pink and yellow clash terribly.

The mom and me at Christmas Eve.

 

Little bit of random trivia from that night: One of my cousins (in jeans) was all, "You got all dressed up!" And I was like, "Shows what you know. I'm not wearing any pants. And there's a lot of food in that kitchen. I call that "thinking ahead.""

ABOVE GRAPHIC (PHOTO, TEXT & PROCESSING) BY JILL GREENBERG

AWESOME!

 

It shows a laughing John McCain below the phrase "I called my wife a cunt in front of reporters."

....

 

And yes, McCain actually DID call his wife a cunt in front of reporters.

 

FUNNY VIDEO: Yes We Cunt!

 

But that's not really what you should be worried about. THIS IS WHAT YOU SHOULD BE WORRIED ABOUT:

 

NOT EVEN REMOTELY FUNNY VIDEO: MCcAIN ANNOUNCES HIS PRESIDENCY WILL BE A HOLY WAR AGAINST 1 BILLION MUSLIMS, AND REPUBLICANS STAND UP AND CLAP

 

Watch it. Really. Watch it.

 

The video above was played at the Republic National Convention in conjunction with McCain's acceptance of the party's official endorsement. The White House actually asked all the cable networks to interrupt their broadcasting to air this "9/11 Memorial" video. Watch through the commentary on the end to see Keith Olberman's horrified response - words for which he was promptly FIRED, despite being one of the most wildly popular political commentators in America.

 

Afterwards, Olbermann described McCain's obscene racist filth as "sociological pornography, a virtual snuff film."

 

Now this I was not expecting - I had no idea Lincoln had been loaned a Hull E200 MMC and just found it at the bus station, so here's 26259 setting off with an Ermine 8 on 20.5.21

 

This is the first Enviro 200 MMC I've seen in real life that has Stagecoach 'Local' livery and basically they've right butchered it. Even my mate who doesn't know (or care) about buses thinks E200 MMCs are sleek looking, but when I told him this was the same type of bus but in the new livery he said they'd completely ruined it!

 

This time I can't even blame Lincoln depot for the abysmal lack of black areas because this is supposed to be the standard application of Local across Stagecoach. I'm really hoping that ADL draw the line and deliver all new ones with the black put back, because they designed it to be there for a reason! As bad as it is, the worst offender here isn't even the section below the windscreen, it's the random bit of colour either side of the emergency door that breaks up the window line... if you're going to do that then at least have the decency to paint all the window pillars!

(even with ADL's quick release glazing you can, because Arriva have done it)

flic.kr/p/2o9d57K

The image was a black and white nude from e-vint.com. I've coloured her and added some Googled fabric (for decency). The flowers and background are from a collection by Itkupilli. (As far as I know e-vint has closed down)

i have just received this email! wow!

please read it, and send it to whoever you know, to school teachers and ask them to read it in class, to churches and ask the priest to read it out loud, instead of his weekly sermon, ....... thank you

maq ! (this is the serious side of me)!

 

Two Choices

 

What would you do?....you make the choice. Don't look for a punch line, there isn't one. Read it anyway. My question is: Would you have made the same choice?

 

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves learning-disabled children, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question: 'When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does is done with perfection. Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where is the natural order of things in my son?'

 

The audience was stilled by the query.

 

The father continued. 'I believe, that when a child like Shay, physically and mentally handicapped comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.'

 

Then he told the following story:

 

Shay and his father had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, 'Do you think they'll let me play?' Shay's father knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but the father also understood that if his son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

 

Shay's father approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, 'We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning.'

 

Shay struggled over to the team's bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt. His Father watched with a small tear in his eye and warmth in his heart. The boys saw the father's joy at his son being accepted. In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as his father waved to him from the stands. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.

 

At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.

 

However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact. The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay. As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.

 

The game would now be over. The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.

 

Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman's head, out of reach of all team mates. Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, 'Shay, run to first! Run to first!' Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base. He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.

 

Everyone yelled, 'Run to second, run to second!' Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base. By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball ... the smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team. He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher's intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman's head. Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.

All were screaming, 'Shay, Shay, Shay, all the way Shay'

 

Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted, 'Run to third! Shay, run to third!'

 

As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming, 'Shay, run home! Run home!' Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team.

 

'That day', said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, 'the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world'.

Shay didn't make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making his father so happy, and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

 

AND NOW A LITTLE FOOTNOTE TO THIS STORY: We all send thousands of jokes through the e-mail without a second thought, but when it comes to sending messages about life choices, people hesitate. The crude, vulgar, and often obscene pass freely through cyberspace, but public discussion about decency is too often suppressed in our schools and workplaces.

If you're thinking about forwarding this message, chances are that you're probably sorting out the people in your address book who aren't the 'appropriate' ones to receive this type of message. Well, the person who sent you this believes that we all can make a difference. We all have thousands of opportunities every single day to help realize the 'natural order of things.' So many seemingly trivial interactions between two people present us with a choice: Do we pass along a little spark of love and humanity or do we pass up those opportunities and leave the world a little bit colder in the process?

 

A wise man once said every society is judged by how it treats it's least fortunate amongst them

 

You now have two choices:

1. Delete

2. Forward

May your day, be a Shay Day

 

thk u everyone for takeing the time! now react!

xxxxx ooooo

This beach is known as PCB, an acronym of Pantai Cahaya Bulan (Moonlight Beach). Those years, this place was also known as PCB, but instead, it was drawn out of Pantai Cinta Berahi (Passionate Love Beach).

 

After the change of government in this state, the new authority must’ve thought the previous name was offensive to decency, depraved, that conceivably would amount to the extreme end of it, causing uncontrolled sexual desire, and so then the new meaning for PCB emerged.

 

Be as it may, never in a million years would I personally have thought that way.

 

This place used to have its flat beaches with white sands all over. It gradually loses its magic with its pristine beaches when nature took over, corroding the beautiful beach that once was. It’s a desperate measure by the authority to slow down the beating of the waves by putting the rocks and wave-breakers in some part.

 

The glories of yesteryears are gone.

 

My boys Sam and Edrin in the picture are enjoying their afternoon at the beach after a hard day celebrating Eid al-Adha.

That's what it takes to be a hero, a little gem of innocence inside you that makes you want to believe that there still exists a right and wrong, that decency will somehow triumph in the end.

 

Lise Hand

 

The Corrs - So Young

 

I am talking to my girl when my fire alarm goes off. I live in an SRO because I am poor but still want to live in San Francisco. Our hotel is conected to six other's in the area, so when one guy burns his microwave popcorn in any of the hotels, the SSFD show up and this crazy stupid alarm goes off in every room.It's a recording of a guy telling me to get to the ground floor, not take the elevator, and other nonsense, then it goes to a piercing whine and repeats until the firemen come. I got mad cuz I was having sexy talk with my girl, and yell back at the recorded voice, "bitch, I'll take the elevator if I want, fuck you!!" I grab my knife, cuz it's 2:00 in the a.m., my wallet, my camera and my smokes and head on down to the main lobby, I live on the top floor, the penthouse, the fifth floor which gives me a great view of the new ugly as shit federal building, but I gotta walk down five flights of stairs past junkies, crackheads and psychos to get out. Lots of people are milling in the lobby, but I don't ask the desk clerk what is up, I am just sick of living in the hell that is 7th and mission, so I just walk out the sliding glass doors onto the street. I call my babymama, and we bullshit for a long time about our daughter, her plans on moving to sacramento, my problems with trying to get my mom some psychological help and our sex lives. I go to Carl's Jr and get a burger, and keep talking to her the whole time. If you don't know, the 24 hour carl's Jr on market and 7th is a hangout for losers, druggies and homeless nutbags. I finish my food, end my call and walk outside to have a smoke. As I am leaning against the post, some healthy young guy tries to bum a smoke, well I only had four left so I tell him, "sorry man" This isn't good enough for him, he begins to harrass me, saying "what? can't you show some christian decency? cigarettes are cheap. What are you? an atheist?" it happens that i am not an atheist, and give out money and cigarettes to people all the time when they ask nicely. I say. "hey, if smokes are so cheap, why don't you go down the block and buy some? you aren't entitled to other people's smokes." he then tells me I look like I have aids, i say,"yes, yes I do have aids, the worst kind, you'd better move on so you don't catch it from breathing the same air as me." he becomes more aggressive and screams at me "Aids Faggot!" as loud as he can. I am a pretty cool guy so I just say, "do yourself a favor and just walk away." he decides to touch me on my shoulder, I suppose trying to incite me to fight him, not very smart as I am carrying a large knife, I just move away, and let him walk away. I try not to let things like this bother me, as I live in a shitty area and I know there are useless garbage people who think the world owes them a living and cigarettes but I am a little shaken. I just go back to what I was doing and lean against the rail at carl's jr and finish my smoke. about two minutes later, the cops roll up driving on the sidewalk, right in front of the carl's jr. where this happened, I was glad I didn't punch the guy out as I have court at the end of the month and geting arrested for a street fight would not look good. then, an older man asks me for a dollar, cuz he says he needs three more dollars for a hotel room. I tell him to wait a sec, grab a dollar out of my pocket and hand it to him, I can see the other idiot is still watching me and it gives me a lot of satisfaction knowing that he can see that I am willing to help people in need, but just not him. I drop my soda to the ground watching the guy who screamed at me, called me faggot and touched me like he thought I was afraid of him. What to make of all this? I know I just have refused to let idiots and criminals run my life, and make me afraid, I will walk where I want in the city when I want, no one is going to scare me out of getting some fast food. I like carl's jr food, maybe I am crazy too, but I am sick of people trying to rob, molest and harrass me when I am a good person, up to nothing illegal or untowards. Maybe someone will fuck me up again, that's why I carry a knife. This city, parts of it have become a haven for those with nothing better to do but look for victims, people who seem weak or look like a target. I dont have aids, but sometimes i wish I could give it to these useless fuckers, maybe then they would see what they have made this city and then they would be at the mercy of our fucked up system. I don't know why people wanna spread their hatred and anger to me, I am a good loving person, I guess they think I won't fuck them up, but they are wrong, when I am in the wrong mood I am entirely capable of losing my shit and going off on somebody, I can fight. I would just rather not, i don't like hurting people. I also don't like being treated like a criminal by cops afterwards when I was merely trying to defend myself and my right to live a peaceful life. "All the animals come out at night - whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies, sick, venal. Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets. I go all over. I take people to the Bronx, Brooklyn, I take 'em to Harlem. I don't care. Don't make no difference to me. It does to some. Some won't even take spooks. Don't make no difference to me." Travis Bickle, Taxi Driver

I think I've talked about how ridiculous Pancake gets at night. He just turns into a ragdoll. His sense of shame has never been particularly keen, and when he's tired, all pride and decency goes out the window. His hoodie only accelerates the process. I came out of the kitchen and found him like this.

"For a real bargain, while you're making a living, you should make also a life." —Aaron Bronson

 

In 1920, in small-town America, the ubiquitous dry goods store—suits and coats, shoes and hats, work clothes and school clothes, yard goods and notions—was usually owned by Jews and often referred to as "the Jew store." That's how Stella Suberman's father's store, Bronson's Low-Priced Store, in Concordia, Tennessee, was known locally. The Bronsons were the first Jews to ever live in that tiny town (1920 population: 5,318) of one main street, one bank, one drugstore, one picture show, one feed and seed, one hardware, one barber shop, one beauty parlor, one blacksmith, and many Christian churches. Aaron Bronson moved his family all the way from New York City to that remote corner of northwest Tennessee to prove himself a born salesman—and much more. Told by Aaron's youngest child, The Jew Store is that rare thing—an intimate family story that sheds new light on a piece of American history. Here is One Man's Family with a twist—a Jew, born into poverty in prerevolutionary Russia and orphaned from birth, finds his way to America, finds a trade, finds a wife, and sets out to find his fortune in a place where Jews are unwelcome. With a novelist's sense of scene, suspense, and above all, characterization, Stella Suberman turns the clock back to a time when rural America was more peaceful but no less prejudiced, when educated liberals were suspect, and when the Klan was threatening to outsiders. In that setting, she brings her remarkable father to life, a man whose own brand of success proves that intelligence, empathy, liberality, and decency can build a home anywhere. The Jew Store is a heartwarming—even inspiring—story.

 

P.S. When I started middle school in 1995, I was one of the few students from the former Soviet Union in the 90s who spoke Russian. Saying my school was unwelcome is an understatement. To American students, I (and a few other students) were “The Russians"... They never got in trouble for that and bullying was completely ignored! I always thought that after being “A Jew” in Ukraine, I would be more accepted here. I was wrong. Maybe that’s what led to my dislike of the American public school system. And to be clear my dislike of the system is not a dislike of the teachers. I've had some amazing teachers who believed in me and inspired me greatly—inspired me in a way no teacher in Ukraine did (I came from a stringent school system). To say I love them and they made my teenager years much brighter is not to say anything! It’s always a choice what kind of person you choose to be!

Back in the good ole days, whoever got stuck on duty for the holiday could still make Thanksgiving dinner as long as they answered the radio, or the phone, if i wasn't working.

 

From what I hear, people round these parts had the decency to refrain from committing any crimes on Turkey Day.

 

1:64 Greenlight Collectibles

1967 Ford Custom 500

New Hampton Police Department

Town of New Hampton, New Hampshire, USA

Hot Pursuit Series 20

 

For more info about the dioramas, check out the FAQ: 1stPix FAQ

Which is it: is man one of God's blunders, or is God one of man's blunders?

-- Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols (1889)

In former times, one sought to prove that there is no God -- today one indicates how the belief that there is a God arose and how this belief acquired its weight and importance: a counter-proof that there is no God thereby becomes superfluous. -- When in former times one had refuted the "proofs of the existence of God" put forward, there always remained the doubt whether better proofs might not be adduced than those just refuted: in those days atheists did not know how to make a clean sweep.

-- Friedrich Nietzsche, Daybreaks, page 95

Really unreflective people are now inwardly without Christianity, and the more moderate and reflective people of the intellectual middle class now possess only an adapted, that is to say marvelously simplified Christianity. A god who in his love arranges everything in a manner that in the end will be best for us; a god who gives to us and takes from us our virtue and our happiness, so that as a whole all is meet and fit and there is no reason for us to take life sadly, let alone exclaim against it; in short, resignation and modest demands elevated to godhead -- that is the best and most vital thing that still remains of Christianity. But one should notice that Christianity has thus crossed over into a gentle moralism: it is not so much "God, freedom and immortality" that have remained, as benevolence and decency of disposition, and the belief that in the whole universe too benevolence and decency of disposition prevail: it is the euthanasia of Christianity.

-- Friedrich Nietzsche, Daybreaks, page 92, R J Hollingdale, translator

 

As long as a man knows very well the strength and weaknesses of his teaching, his art, his religion, its power is still slight. The pupil and apostle who, blinded by the authority of the master and by the piety he feels toward him, pays no attention to the weaknesses of a teaching, a religion, and soon usually has for that reason more power than the master. The influence of a man has never yet grown great without his blind pupils. To help a perception to achieve victory often means merely to unite it with stupidity so intimately that the weight of the latter also enforces the victory of the former.

-- Friedrich Nietzsche, Human, all too Human, page 122, R J Hollingdale, translator

 

If the Christian dogmas of a revengeful God, universal sinfulness, election by divine grace and the danger of eternal damnation were true, it would be a sign of weak-mindedness and lack of character not to become a priest, apostle or hermit and, in fear and trembling, to work solely on one's own salvation; it would be senseless to lose sight of one's eternal advantage for the sake of temporal comfort. If we may assume that these things are at any rate believed true, then the everyday Christian cuts a miserable figure; he is a man who really cannot count to three, and who precisely on account of his spiritual imbecility does not deserve to be punished so harshly as Christianity promises to punish him.

-- Friedrich Nietzsche, Human, all too Human, page 116, RJ Hollingdale, translator

 

After Buddha was dead, his shadow was still shown for centuries in a cave -- a tremendous, gruesome shadow. God is dead; but given the way of men, there may still be caves for thousands of years in which his shadow will be shown. -- And we -- we still have to vanquish his shadow, too.

-- Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science, page 108, Walter Kaufmann, translator

www.positiveatheism.org/hist/quotes/nietzsche.htm

they had the decency to work the backside of the billboard

"Lucky's" photograph was the first EcoSnake posted on Flickr (July 6, 2006). "Lucky" was a Great Basin rattlesnake, native of Idaho (Crotalus oreganus lutosus). I'm re-posting it to protest the rattlesnake roundup which is happening in Texas for three days this week. Some 7000 rattlesnakes will be slaughtered for no other reason than money and "entertainment." The snakes are forced out of their dens by humans spraying gas into the ground, a practice which, most likely, kills other animals sharing the dens. The snakes are then dumped in containers and kept for months without food and water. Then at the "festival" they are taken out, measured and beheaded. There's a problem here: Snakes' metabolism is much slower than humans'. When a snake is beheaded, the head will live for some time after....But apart from these thoughts, why do we need to commit this barbarity on our fellow living beings? The rattlesnakes only want to be left alone to live their lives. They want to regulate their body temperatures, have shelter, food and water, and mate and have privacy - amazing - not too much different from us - the rattlesnakes consume huge quantities of rodents which, if left unchecked, destroy crops and spread disease - to humans. "Lucky" died last year but he died of old age....He was "Lucky" More information about amphibians and reptiles at www.ecosnake.com. Photo by Garren (Garren Evans, April 15, 1971 - August 9, 2008)

Color Plate by Rachel Dixon.

 

“Costume Design and Home Planning” by Estelle Peel Izor who copyrighted in 1916. Illustrated by Katherine Porter Brown and Rachel Taft Dixon. Published by Atkinson, Mentzer and Co., of Boston, New York, Chicago and Dallas.

 

“The first purpose of Clothes was not for warmth, or decency, but ornament. What changes are wrought, not by Time, yet in, Time! Clothes gave us individuality, distinctions, social polity; Clothes have made men of us.” Carlyle

French postcard by Editions Lyna, Paris, offered by Corvisart, Epinal, no. 2085. Photo: Sam Lévin.

 

French actress Brigitte Bardot (1934) died on 28 December 2025, at the age of 91. In the 1950s, she was the sex kitten of the European film industry. BB starred in 48 films, performed in numerous musical shows, and recorded 80 songs. After her retirement in 1973, she became an animal rights activist. In the coming weeks, we will continue to post a BB postcard every day to remember her as she once was.

 

Brigitte Bardot was born in Paris in 1934. Her father, Louis Bardot, had an engineering degree and worked with his father in the family business. Her mother, Ann-Marie Mucel, was 14 years younger than Brigitte's father, and they married in 1933. Brigitte's mother encouraged her daughter to take up music and dance. At the age of 13, she entered the Conservatoire Nationale de Danse to study ballet. By the time she was 15, Brigitte was trying to launch a modelling career and found herself on the cover of the French magazine Elle in May 1949. Her incredible beauty was readily apparent, and Brigitte was noticed by Roger Vadim, then an assistant to the film director Marc Allegrét. Vadim was infatuated with Bardot and encouraged her to start working as a film actress. BB was 18 when she debuted in the comedy Le Trou Normand / Crazy for Love (Jean Boyer, 1952). In the same year, she married Vadim. Brigitte wanted to marry him when she was 17, but her parents quashed any marriage plans until she turned 18. In April 1953, she attended the Cannes Film Festival, where she received massive media attention. She soon was every man's idea of the girl he'd like to meet in Paris. From 1952 to 1956, she appeared in seventeen films. Her films were generally lightweight romantic dramas in which she was cast as an ingénue or siren, often with an element of undress. In 1953, she made her first US production, Un acte d'amour / Act of Love (Anatole Litvak, 1953) with Kirk Douglas, but she continued to make films in France.

 

Roger Vadim was not content with the light fare his wife was offered. He felt Brigitte Bardot was being undersold. Looking for something more like an art film to push her as a serious actress, he showcased her in Et Dieu créa la femme / ...And God Created Woman (Roger Vadim, 1956). This film, about an immoral teenager in a respectable small-town setting, was a smash success on both sides of the Atlantic. Craig Butler at AllMovie: "It's easy enough to say that ...And God Created Woman is much more important for its historical significance than for its actual quality as a film, and that's true to an extent. The immense popularity, due to its willingness to directly embrace an exploration of sex as well as its willingness to show a degree of nudity that was remarkably daring for its day, demonstrated that audiences were willing to view subject matter that was considered too racy for the average moviegoer. This had both positive (freedom to explore, especially for the French filmmakers of the time) and negative (freedom to exploit) consequences, but its impact is undeniable. It's also true that Woman is not a great work of art, not with a story that is ultimately rather thin, some painful dialogue, and an attitude toward its characters and their sexuality that is unclear and inconsistent. Yet Woman is still fascinating, due in no small part to the presence of Brigitte Bardot in the role that made her an international star and sex symbol. She's not demonstrating great acting here, although her performance is actually good and much better than necessary, and her legendary mambo scene at the climax is nothing short of sensational." During the shooting of Et Dieu créa la femme / And God Created Woman (Roger Vadim, 1956), directed by her husband, Brigitte Bardot had an affair with her co-star Jean-Louis Trintignant, who at that time was married to French actress Stéphane Audran. Her divorce from Vadim followed, but they remained friends and collaborated in later work.

 

Et Dieu créa la femme / ...And God Created Woman (Roger Vadim, 1956) helped Brigitte Bardot's international status. The film took the USA by storm, her explosive sexuality being unlike anything seen in the States since the days of the 'flapper' in the 1920s. It gave rise to the phrase 'sex kitten', and fascination with her in America consisted of magazine photographs and dubbed over French films - good, bad or indifferent, her films drew audiences - mainly men - into theatres like lemmings. BB appeared in light comedies like Doctor at Large (Ralph Thomas, 1957) - the third of the British 'Doctor' series starring Dirk Bogarde - and Une Parisienne / La Parisienne (Michel Boisrond, 1957), which suited her acting skills best. However, she was a sensation in the crime drama En cas de malheur / Love is My Profession (Claude Autant-Lara, 1958). Hal Erickson at AllMovie: "This Brigitte Bardot vehicle ran into stiff opposition from the Catholic Legion of Decency, severely limiting its U.S. distribution. Bardot plays a nubile small-time thief named Yvette, who becomes the mistress of influential defence attorney Andre (Jean Gabin). Though Andre can shower Yvette with jewels and furs, he cannot "buy" her heart, and thus it is that it belongs to handsome young student Mazzetti (Franco Interlenghi). Alas, Yvette is no judge of human nature: attractive though Mazzetti can be, he has a dangerous and deadly side. En Cas de Malheur contains a nude scene that has since been reprinted in freeze-frame form innumerable times by both film-history books and girlie magazines." Photographer Sam Lévin's photos contributed considerably to her image of sensuality and slight immorality. One of Lévin's pictures shows Brigitte, dressed in a white corset. It is said that around 1960, postcards with this photograph outsold in Paris those of the Eiffel Tower.

 

Brigitte Bardot divorced Vadim in 1957, and in 1959 she married actor Jacques Charrier, with whom she starred in Babette s'en va-t-en guerre / Babette Goes to War (Christian-Jaque, 1959). The paparazzi preyed upon her marriage, while she and her husband clashed over the direction of her career

Her films became more substantial, but this brought a heavy pressure of dual celebrity as she sought critical acclaim while remaining a glamour model for most of the world. Vie privée / Private Life (1962), directed by Louis Malle, has more than an element of autobiography in it. James Travers at French Films: "Brigitte Bardot hadn’t quite reached the high point of her career when she agreed to make this film with high-profile New Wave film director Louis Malle. Even so, the pressure of being a living icon was obviously beginning to get to France’s sex goddess, and Vie privée is as much an attempt by Bardot to come to terms with her celebrity as anything else. Malle is clearly fascinated by Bardot, and the documentary approach he adopts for this film reinforces the impression that it is more a biography of the actress than a work of fiction. Of course, it’s not entirely biographical, but the story is remarkably close to Bardot’s own life and comes pretty close to predicting how her career would end." The scene in which, returning to her apartment, Bardot's character is harangued in the elevator by a middle-aged cleaning lady calling her offensive names was based on an actual incident, and is a resonant image of celebrity in the mid-20th century. Soon afterwards, Bardot withdrew to the seclusion of Southern France.

 

Brigitte Bardot's other husbands were German millionaire Playboy Gunter Sachs and right-wing politician Bernard d'Ormale. She is reputed to have had relationships with many other men, including Samy Frey, her co-star in La Vérité / The Truth (Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1960), and musicians Serge Gainsbourg and Sacha Distel. In 1963, Brigitte Bardot starred in Jean-Luc Godard's critically acclaimed film Le Mépris / Contempt (Jean-Luc Godard, 1963) opposite Michel Piccoli. She was also featured along with such notable actors as Alain Delon in Amours célèbres / Famous Love Affairs (Michel Boisrond, 1961) and Histoires extraordinaires /Tales of Mystery (Louis Malle, 1968), Jeanne Moreau in Viva Maria! (Louis Malle, 1965), Sean Connery in Shalako (Edward Dmytryk, 1968), and Claudia Cardinale in Les Pétroleuses / Petroleum Girls (Christian-Jaque, 1971). She participated in various musical shows and recorded many popular songs in the 1960s and 1970s, mostly in collaboration with Serge Gainsbourg, Bob Zagury and Sacha Distel, including 'Harley Davidson', 'Le Soleil De Ma Vie' (the cover of Stevie Wonder's 'You Are the Sunshine of My Life') and the notorious 'Je t'aime... moi non plus'.

 

Brigitte Bardot’s film career showed a steady decline in the late 1960s and early 1970s. In 1973, just before her fortieth birthday, she announced her retirement. She chose to use her fame to promote animal rights. In 1976, she established the Brigitte Bardot Foundation for the Welfare and Protection of Animals. She became a vegetarian and raised three million French francs to fund the foundation by auctioning off jewellery and many personal belongings. For this work, she was awarded the Légion d’honneur in 1984. During the 1990s, she was also outspoken in her criticism of immigration, interracial relationships, Islam in France and homosexuality. Her husband Bernard d'Ormal was a former adviser of the far-right Front National party. Bardot has been convicted five times for 'inciting racial hatred'. More fun is that Bardot is recognised for popularising bikini swimwear, in such early films as Manina / Woman without a Veil (Willy Rozier, 1952), in her appearances at Cannes and in many photo shoots. Bardot also brought into fashion the 'choucroute' ('Sauerkraut') hairstyle (a sort of beehive hairstyle) and gingham clothes after wearing a checkered pink dress, designed by Jacques Esterel, at her wedding to Charrier. The fashions of the 1960s looked effortlessly right and spontaneous on her. Time Magazine: "She is the princess of pout, the countess of come hither. Brigitte Bardot exuded a carefree, naïve sexuality that brought a whole new audience to French films."

 

Sources: Denny Jackson (IMDb), Hal Erickson (AllMovie), Craig Butler (AllMovie), James Travers (French Films), French Films, Wikipedia and IMDb.

 

And please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

Church of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross (also known as Holy Cross Exaltation Church) in Darnа

sobory.ru/article/?object=01850

ru.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D0%9A%D1%80%D0%B5%D1%81%D1%82%D0...

 

Camera: Olympus OM-1n

Lens: Zuiko Auto-W 28mm f/ 2.8

Film: Agfa Vista Plus 400

Filter: No filter

Scanned by Minolta Dimage ScanElite 5400 by VueScan

 

Церковь Воздвижения Честного Креста Господня в Дарне (Крестовоздвиженский храм) — православный храм Истринского благочиния Московской епархии, расположенный в деревне Дарна Истринского района Московской области

The Church of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross in Darna (Holy Cross Church) is an Orthodox church of the Istra decency of the Moscow Diocese, located in the village of Darna in the Istrinsky district of the Moscow region

This image is copyright, all rights reserved, and not part of the public domain. Any use, linking to, or posting of this image is prohibited without my consent. If you want to use this image in any fashion, please have the common courtesy and decency to ask.

 

Elk Cove Vineyards, Gaston, Oregon

 

I went out to the Vineyards this weekend with my Sis and another friend. We like to make grape photography an annual event with lots of dancing and good wine. I noticed my Sis was trying to get a sunstar through this group of grapes so I told her to move out of the way so I could show her how it's done. Kicking her out of the way I dropped to the ground, added some on camera flash and shot this from my hip.

700m under Sonderhausen, Germany in a salt mine

 

Troy soundchecks lap steel guitar

 

p.s. if you are gonna post my copyrighted images elsewhere on the internet at least have the decency to credit me with them or link them back to here, or i'll probably stop posting them or at least start putting big watermarks on them.

 

day 355 of 365.

 

Last night, between the hours of 5 pm and 12 am, I lost my wallet. It was in my bag, and then it suddenly wasn’t. I searched my car, and had my sister and friends look in their houses. I went back to the gas station where I had filled up that night. No one found a thing. It was lost.

 

So this afternoon, I was on the phone, trying to get through to an actual person to cancel my credit cards, and a message comes through on myspace. When I clicked on it, I was shocked to read the following: "What an odd way to get a hold of someone for this, but we found your wallet on a street." Someone had found my wallet. And googled me. And found my myspace page, and emailed me. No need to cancel credit cards, or get a new driver’s license, or figure out what other crap needs to be replaced. Hallelujah.

 

So, today this photo is dedicated to the power of prayer; to the decency of man; and not least of all, to myspace.

 

Also, congrats to Mrs. Reed for finishing her 365 day project today! Take a moment today and check out her set of wonderful self portraits! :)

 

ALSO! I finish my own 365 project in just 10 short days! If you are in the Seattle area, you should come out to the seattle flickr meetup group’s brews and views at hula hula next Thursday (Dec 27th) at 7 PM! That is my day 365, and I’d love for you all to celebrate with me. :)

 

explore #54

perhaps it's partially about the 'act of stealing', itself...

 

Is there anything more 'Human' (life affirming) than pissing? Human doesn't encompass it, even sentient doesn't. I mean all 'Life', the sentient and what we have the temerity to call the non-sentient.

 

Perhaps possession is theft after all.

 

I like the 'Royal Doulton' blue chain design (hand-painted, except it isn't) under the right side of the upper part of the urinal, that 'human touch' generated by an App, that 'ghost in the machine'.

 

Clever App.

 

This 'piece' does not exist, or at least didn't until now.

 

Below (attached) is an article from today's Guardian, about people being fined for 'stealing a piss' in an open field.

 

Now that, the fine imposed, is theft.

 

www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2024/jan/30/wee-in-the-...

 

“Ukraine will never be a victory for Russia, for free people [have] refused to live in a world of hopelessness and darkness. We will have a different future, a brighter future rooted in democracy and principle, hope and light, of decency and dignity of freedom and possibilities,”

 

“For God’s sake, Putin cannot remain in power,” Biden said.

What an amazing place this is. It used to be a thermal bath house. It was built in the 19th century and what beautifully decorated. It will soon be converted into a posh hotel.

When we entered early morning we were the first explorers setting up our gear. Within an hour the place was crowded with explorers from all over Europe and it was hard to take a decent picture.

Apparently it is hard for other people to wait until others who were there earlier are done. I gave them a hard time by just standing in 'their' way while taking a shot. Have some decency people and be patient!

 

Please visit www.preciousdecay.com for more pictures and follow me on Facebook on www.facebook.com/Preciousdecay.urbex

Close-up view of Ian Curtis' grave at Macclesfield cemetery. The day after this photo was taken, the inscribed curbstone was stolen!!

 

I hope the person who did this has the decency of giving it back.

website : www.crbdx.com

 

suite de la série

 

Photographie argentique noir et blanc réalisée au Moyen Format, 6x6.

 

Bronica Ec-Tl + 150mm

Ilford Delta 400 (poussée à 800 iso / pushed to 800 )

Ilfosol 3 (1+14) 20 min à 20°C / Tetenal Superfix Plus 1+9

Epson V700

 

i bought this little snap @ an antique store in Clinton, Tennessee. Clinton is one of those historic farming communities, the downtown of which has declined, or advanced, to a state where antique stores outnumber all the other stores combined. there are a few banks, and a really nice, still thriving old pharmacy with a well-attended lunch operation. twice yearly Clinton hosts an outdoor antique fair. bought a few things outdoors, but this photo was in one of the malls. the owner was packing up to drive to Brimfield (this was in the spring) from which he averred he would depart, at the end of the show, with five or six thousand dollars extra in his pocket. he had some nice photos, and most of them had rather large

price tags.

 

this snap was with a group of African-American photographs. whoever had had those photographs had been a member of the African-American community in some city in

Illinois (the antique store owner told me this). anyway, the student @ the school (it may have been Joliet or Des Plaines, a city of that size) obviously thought enough of Mr. Andersen to take his picture. i'm guessing he was a math or science teacher.

 

it's possible that this is my favorite find of the year. i just love Mr. Andersen's smile, his joie de vivre, his obvious pleasure in his occupation. the chalk dust on his suit jacket is the kicker.

 

i hope Mr. Andersen brings President Obama good luck tonight. i'm not going to wish Mitt Romney any ill. i almost hope he presents his case in a professional and objective manner. one of those two men will be our next President, so it doesn't seem right to want one to fall on his face.

 

but let's hope Mr. Andersen is a talisman of good tidings for the forces of reason, intelligence, decency, and honor in a world fraught with peril.

Una especie también escasa, más que nada porque casi nunca canta. Este tuvo la decencia de identificarse de esa manera. Un nemesis bird para mi.

Uncommon bird, hard to identify among all the myiarchis in the area, this one had the decency to sing its song and to pose briefly and reasonably on the open before heading back to the scrub. A personal nemesis bird.

Papamoscas Yucateco, Yucatan Flycatcher, Myiarchus yucatanensis, Aves, Mexico

Panaba, Yucatán, México, Peninsula de Yucatan

Marzo 08, 2014

 

The police in Paris are in discussion with the NYC police and both are currently in communication with the Musée d'Orsay, and the Metropolitan, over the latest manifestation of this startling phenomenon.

 

Neither 'The International League of Decency', nor Marcel Duchamp were available for comment, but both denied (through representatives) having any connection to this recent spate of runaway nudes, descending or otherwise.

 

A Musée d'Orsay curator lamented that it was probably a mistake to allow the painting to travel to New York. "A girl could have her head turned. That city could turn anyone", he fomented (in French, of course).

 

Police, in New York and Paris, are asking the public to keep their eyes peeled, and to report any unexpected unclad figures, either male or female, to their local constabulary.

 

Manet was not available for comment.

 

Olympia's cat is said to be distraught.

Malfoy snorted, startled by the stark resemblance in Ling's gaze to that of an old acquaintance. He was known as Kamaji, an infamous incubus who loved to bend the rules. Uncanny was an understatement when Ling's whole face was literally a female version of Kamaji's. It was like looking at him in an alternate universe. Malfoy stammered, blinking profusely. He started sweating like a hot lunch in Tupperware.

 

Malfoy: "K-ka-Kama..."

 

Ling: "Miss me with the apraxia you seven layer cesspit. Any inkling as to why I'm here? Who sent me? Hmm? You fecal fuck bag…"

 

Malfoy: "Kamaji?"

 

Ling jarred in angst at the sound of that name. Her body then reflexively hauled off with a backhand worthy of a pimp gawd. Malfoys billowed frame barreled along the side of his conference table. Now they were both shook but for two entirely different reasons.

 

Ling: "Muthafu… How the fu… Nah, because fucking with that soul sucking creatin means you are one of two things. Victim or accomplice. But learning what I now know of you...heh. Even he had enough decency to make you a victim. I can smell part of your tainted soul. It was all his doing wasn't it?"

 

Grinning from ear to ear Ling stalked Malfoy like they were in the Serengeti. He clung to the table for stability. Slowly scaling around its perimeter he tried to maintain a decent distance from Ling. Malfoy's tree trunks could barely keep his footing. She was on a panther prowl and he was the perfect prey. He whimpered in a last ditch effort to save his ass.

 

Malfoy: "Listen I've got money, body mods, police, lawyers and politicians in my back pocket! Whatever it is you need or want. I can make it happen. Just say the word and leave me in one piece. Please!!"

 

Ling: "That please was almost believable. I mean it gave your little monologue some razzle dazzle at least. But this shit, this shit right here, is purely business. Well maybe a little personal mixed with alotta karma. But it's judgment day either way. And believe it or not this has nothing to do with my sperm donor…"

 

Malfoy: "So then why the fuck are you here, exactly?"

 

Ling: "Ah...now that's the tone of the snake from the tape I watched. Majin was right, you are quite the actor Mr. Malfoy. Quite the actor indeed…"

 

Malfoy: "Ha so you're working for a sick fuck. All while trying to condemn me as such. This false sense of righteousness is rather entertaining, trivial at best."

 

Ling: "Takes one to know one right? Anyway, I'm indebted to the heartless shrew. He saved my life and gave me back the limbs I lost.”

 

Hearing Majin’s name, Malfoy’s eyes flared. His once petrified demeanor flipped, it was nothing short of demonic. Clearly Majin has made his fair share of enemies. And honestly it’s not hard to see why. Malfoy was hyperventilating, growling obscenities in Majin’s name. Ling rolled her eyes at him as she began hacking his security systems. Locking the doors to the room they occupied she sighed in sheer boredom. Ling’s obvious complacency triggered something inside Malfoy and he snapped. He began ranting while laughing hysterically.

 

Malfoy: “Listen bitch!!! You have no idea who you’re fucking with! That son of a bitch you call yourself working for will soon have someone after you. That rat bastard has a TRAIL of enemies and debts. He ALWAYS gets someone to do his dirty work. The way your FATHER fucked me is the EXACT SAME WAY Majin has fucked you!”

 

By the end of his rant, Ling was nose to nose with Malfoy. Spittle from his laughter lightly showered her face. She was utterly seething. Lard ass spoke nothing but facts, strike 1. He addressed Kamaji as her father, strike 2. The laughter spittle was strike 3 and it was over with. Grabbing his right arm she shattered his wrist in a failed attempt of trying to dislocate it altogether. He yelped for a second then grunted with a deep moan. His eyes lustful, pain only aroused him. The fact that Ling was inflicting said pain made it all the more tantalizing for him.

 

She then raised her leg stomping inward on his knee. Malfoy cried out as a crimson waterfall poured out over bone, shredded flesh and torn cashmere cloth. He toppled over screaming, laughing and moaning in intervals. As he rolled on his back his belly moved enough to expose the moist stain in his slacks. The man was a sick individual, a true masochist/sadist. He enjoyed receiving pain if he found you attractive and powerful. Otherwise he could only get off by inflicting pain on the weak and vulnerable. It took everything in Ling not to stomp on his testicals, mostly because it would only pleasure him. So she dug her heel into his broken leg instead.

 

Ling: “Malfoy old boy, your ways worked against you. Soundproof office, nobody can hear you scream. I’m gonna flambé that ass. See you in hell muthafucka!”

 

Ling pulled a small flask filled with acetone out of her cleavage. She poured it on Malfoy’s crotch. He squirmed trying to move away from the liquid as he realized her intent. His laughter halted, he then screamed in rage and terror. Ling lit a match on her ass, and had Malfoy’s chestnuts roasting on an open fire. She then quickly made her way to the nearest window. Making for a dramatic exit she sparta kicked her way out. The tempered glass shattered, falling like rain. Ling vaulted from the window, below layed a security guard impaled by glass. Malfoys blood curdling screams could finally be heard echoing outside the establishment. Smoke and the smell of burning flesh seeped into the main lobby. Security flew into action, their frenzy sent everyone into a panic.

 

Malfoy’s minions were hot on Ling's trail. Their footsteps, a mere millisecond behind hers. One got a hold of her coat so she began to strip out of her ensemble. Tossing garments left and right, she was nimble, she was quick. Ling’s tossed heel gouged out the eye of the man closest to her. She hopped over a jewelry case in one foul swoop, rendering her pursuers dumbfounded. And with that her movements became progressively more aggressive and impressive. Parkour was actually one of Ling’s specialties as was evasion.

 

Ling slid under an elderly man's legs, he flinched, losing his bowels in the khakis he wore. Colliding with the soiled old man, another guard bites the dust. Onlookers gasped and tried to scurry out of the path of chaos. Then over a little girl’s head she somersaulted, winking at her in assurance. The girl’s big doe eyes sparkled and her tiny jaw dropped watching Ling in action. Two men were closing in on Ling from both sides by this time. A vegetable stand stood between her and an open stairwell to salvation.

 

Vaulting through the stand she parted through the couple running it like the red sea. Ling had to think fast after crumpling to the floor in the hallway. Stairway up or apartment door straight ahead? With no time to think her foot slammed through the ground floor apartment door. Doesn't seem like anyone was home. Ling burst through the window at the back of the building. Her body spilled out onto the ground exhausted. Soon ling was in an empty alley with nowhere to go but up. Wall kicks and pull ups were her best friends in this scenario. Frantic footsteps were closing in from behind. Up she went clawing, pulling and digging her toes in. She leapt onto the rooftop adjacent to the gutter pipe she clung to.

 

Peering over the edge of the building she could see the men doing recon of the area. They were making assumptions on her whereabouts. One reiterated how their boss wanted Ling captured alive. She sent a signal for her ride as she backslid down the wall breathless. Ling’s car hovered onto the roof, she crawled in setting it to autopilot. Her GPS spouted an address in the quaint town of Dermount. ETA was about three and a half hours, so plenty of time to rest and recharge. This target was quite eventful and it was only the first one. It will only get more boisterous from here…

 

Italian postcard by Vettori, no. 3033. Pina Menichelli and Vittorio Rossi-Pianelli in La moglie di Claudio (Gero Zambuto, Itala 1918), based on 'La femme de Claude' by Alexandre Dumas fils. The film was found and restored in 2011 by Museo nazionale del cinema in Turin and Cineteca di Bologna. It was digitized in 2017. See vimeo.com/97531343.

 

Cesarina (Pina Menichelli) is Claudio Ruper's charming but dissolute wife. Her cold reaction to the death of her illegitimate son, who until then had been kept hidden by a couple of peasants, reveals her true nature to her husband and convinces him to break off all contact with her except for the cohabitation imposed by bourgeois decency. From that moment on, Claudio (Vittorio Rossi-Pianelli), an inventor of war machinery, devotes himself completely to his work, planning the construction of a powerful new weapon to put at the service of his homeland, France. Antonino (Alberto Nepoti), a young man of no means whom he had brought up as his son, assists him in the undertaking. The new invention, a cannon of exceptional power, attracts the attention of a powerful secret society, which commissions a spy, Moncabrè, to seduce Cesarina into handing over her husband's documents. However, the conspirators have not reckoned with the perverse allure of the woman "...the evil female who undermines society, dissolves the family, dismembers the country, weakens the man, dishonours the woman whose appearance she assumes and destroys those who do not crush her". Cesarina seduces Antonino in opening her husband's safe to her... In a whirlwind of passion and death, events precipitate towards a tragic finale.

 

Fascinating and enigmatic Pina Menichelli (1890-1984) was the most bizarre Italian diva of the silent era. With her contorted postures and disdainful expression, she impersonated the striking femme fatale.

THE ALTAR OF INTERFERENCE

 

Rack: Ruin, Sorry to have been unresponsive. I fell off the digital planet upstate and found it delightful. Back in the city. All is well except for that gnawing post-holiday anxiety. Hope you're good and the writing goes along.

  

Ruin: I have been enjoying some crisis time here. Stuff to do with the sexual abuse, the neglect, and the, to be expected, self-loathing generated there. It happens every now and then, and it can be overpowering. The stuff we have been looking at, or at least that stuff I have been writing about, would more or less cause that to happen, I guess. Anyway, I have been taking a step back to look at it, the PTSD generated through abuse of all stripes. It’s sort of overarching. I want to look at it, and the idea of patterns, that ‘Wild Goose’ thing, of flight rather than fight, that permanent adrenaline rush of looking for a constant ‘elsewhere’, of heading out, or creating situations where one has to head out (like the silly 'London situation' that catapulted me to Amsterdam), that forcing oneself into constant panic-mode, left over from childhood survival tactics.

 

Then there is the generation of a cuckoo gene relative to all that too, that looking for parents, stealing them, even, nesting strategies that could be considered ‘shameful’, or at least might generate shame to add to the self-loathing, bolstering it up. Then there’s the slow suicide of looking for HIV, that cowardly way of doing oneself in. Anyway, these are a few of the things I am going to look at unflinchingly, going forward. I am in a sort of bracing mode, girding one’s overused, and sagging, loins for a full-frontal assault.

 

Once more unto that breach, and all that palaver, a cuckooed 'Wild Goose' negotiating a swansong, even.

 

It's difficult to write these things about oneself, and see them reflected back by you, your acknowledgment of them, suggesting that you have more than an 'understanding'. We are both aware of what we reflect back to each other, something we have done for 35 years now, that there is mutuality there. I know why you struggle with it, I do too. I suspect this might be what makes it worthwhile.

  

Rack: Ruin, I had a similar moment recently. It has taken this long for me to be able to recognize what is happening when I want to flee, when I feel that the sky falling on my head is imminent, when I just can't function. It is hard to acknowledge how many areas of life its tendrils have drilled their way into. I have read that Ketamine infusions can help, and I've been toying with the idea for a long time, though it is horribly expensive. Not drinking has been a huge help lately and I realize that booze just makes me more anxious, ultimately. It's alarming to think how one's life has been sculpted by such childhood events. I can't even identify what it is that happened. I can remember very little of childhood. I wonder was there additional abuse to the stuff I can remember. I suppose it's not that important to remember the details. That whole notion of healing and moving on seems like a daft impossibility to me. If anything, the symptoms of PTSD have become worse for me as I age, as if they will out, regardless. Sometimes I just feel like I'm not functioning. Anyway, I know where you are and it is a difficult and painful place to sit through. Maybe that's how you get past it. By looking it in the eye and not freezing. Maybe the writing of it will be a huge relief for you, not in the way of some perfect redemption, but a squaring of things. I am sending you much love.

  

Ruin: I don’t know if I scared myself to a stop or not, I don’t think I did, I think I am still writing. I am writing around it, around the theme. There were, of course, triggers. It’s difficult to get to that point of full exposure, but that’s where I think I have to go, and I have enough evidence of questionable behaviour generated in response, perhaps, both in my art and in what I have been writing all these years. Strangely, I realised that there were others in my family generating patterns, according to how they reacted to our negligent parents. The sister, Phil, who gloated over the tearing up, and burning, of that book (‘A Stone for Danny Fisher’) is the same sister who consigned my Doctoral work to the Dublin City dump. It was the same action, a refined echo, but 50 years later. I have been looking at, and thinking about, how we continue to unknowingly repeat these patterns. I assumed my victim role, and ran away, yet again. I would rather fly than fight, that classic ‘wild goose’ pattern. There is nothing there I want to fight for anyway, the place is even more sordid than I am, but I want to be aware of these patterns, and all of my siblings adapted a different variation, one that would make their lives livable. But my parents in their turn generated their patterns in reaction to their abandonment, so there’s no blame there at all. I guess the idea isn’t to blame, even not to blame my abusive uncle, I love the word ‘avuncular’, his was learnt behaviour. Of this I am sure, given that I know that at least two of his older brothers are child abusers (and priests).

 

So, the drive is not to ‘forgive’ and lovingly embrace family. It’s simply, through writing, to understand these patterns, and hopefully in doing so, to short-circuit the whole shebang. But I don’t want to write an abuse ‘memoir’. Anyway, there’s the challenge, and it’s still called ‘Rack and Ruin’.

  

Rack: Yes. I heartily agree. It’s “just” trying to understand and thereby to release oneself of ever re-enacting the same circular route. Maybe not possible. Maybe is.

  

Ruin: Well, I wouldn’t want to prefigure, or disallow for, any deathbed exegesis, that flash of realisation, that might, or might not, be on the cards. If it was all figured out before then it might make that climax anti-climactic. As for the rest, the writing, the art, the life, you get as far as you get, and then it all unravels anyway, and before you know it, you’re dust. There’s a cheerful morning thought. I suspect we both have them. Then there is that intervening time, and the filling of the same. Mine is very much about restoring self-worth, and I am actually glad that I am still at that. It would have been much easier just to give up and dissipate towards that void (Oh, the drama!). I wrote sissipate, accidentally. I like that, that rolling the ball endlessly up that hill, and finding it at the bottom of the hill in the morning. Just like this morning, and away we go again. Bless that dung beetle. I like that we, instinctively, continue to do this, each rolling (along the self-same route) being completely different from the one before. That release happens in its own time, or rather it’s happening constantly, until it’s spent. I like this, and have no interest in it other than the doing itself. I like putting words and images up on Flickr. I love that this represents a type of slightly cracked-open window, that one's experience, and understanding, is not completely shut off, even if there is no evidence of any response. It is enough in itself. It reminds me of that medieval Anchorite sitting by her window, carbuncled onto a remote church, entombed even. The goal is no longer to show, or publish, the goal is to make, with a small window left open, just in case. I love that 'Just in case'.

 

“Maybe not possible. Maybe is.” I love the ‘maybe’, like I love ‘perhaps’, ‘even’, ‘possibly’, and other words conveying lack of surety. That’s where I would love to be found sitting for whatever posterity there might be, or not. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I also love that idea of it not mattering. I saw it in a ketamine exegesis (that word again), and I know it to be true. I know, ‘dumb ass’, but I don’t care.

  

Rack: Yes to "restoring self-worth". Oh, that there were a short cut, but it seems there is not, probably not even Ketamine. Up and down that bloody hill, sissipating like the dung beetles that we are. We are, once again, at the juncture of ‘Labor Day’, that convenient long weekend that bookends the summer with its predecessor, ‘Memorial Day’. My panic continues as my partner sits reading with a small flashlight hanging out of his mouth, because he can no longer see without the additional light. Who does the panicking in your house? I feel like it is somebody's job in a household. A small engine of worry. Anyway, I am going to try and park it somewhere and enjoy the relatively empty city and the weather with the worst of the heat gone out of it. Could really do with a good long screaming walk with you.

 

Ruin: I am the worrier. I find myself wonderfully entombed with the buggering Buddha, as far as that is concerned. It’s a glorious place to be. Our Pyramid is wondrous. Time is at its undoing, and I love it all shoddying the edges. That doesn’t seem to staunch that flow of worrying, regardless. The insecurities, or the source, perhaps, of that deluge, is somewhat easily traced back.

 

The Mater had a type of mantra, it was in a way the pride of her arsenal, and I remember it being put to use on many an occasion. It went something like this: “You do know that you can never pay us back, don’t you? If you worked all your life and gave us every penny you ever earned, it wouldn’t even come near to what you owe us”. I have it in parentheses, but it is not really a quote. It wouldn’t have been proffered so lucidly, it would have been spat and mangled, screeched out, perhaps between thuds and flailing fists. It was harridan-like. The thuds and flailings would, more or less, always miss their marks and land on a battered table, or on the back of a broken chair. They weren’t the problem. All the chairs in the house were broken. I remember going back to help celebrate one Christmas, travelling from London, 40 years later, and sitting on a chair which immediately collapsed from under me. I roared at the power of the Mater’s mantra asserting itself, as I sat on the floor hysterically laughing whilst remembering.

 

So, it was set in stone. I would have to go working at the age of thirteen, in the aforementioned ‘The Laurels’ to “earn my keep” and pay into the coffers for the upkeep of the brood, all of whom had “no idea how much they owed”. At some point, during one of these incidents, I made the connection between sex and pleasure, probably around the concurrent abuse cycle with my uncle, and perhaps managed to scream out that they chose to have sex, that they shouldn’t have had children at all. My mother informed me that “sex is for men”, which only further confused me relative to her putting her brother in my bed.

 

Other than what my bull-uncle was teaching me, this was the only sex education that I had.

 

When we came to ‘Human reproduction’ in biology class, the ‘chaste’ Christian Brother announced, “We will skip this section for now, it won’t come up in exams anyway”. I was already, perhaps, a year into my anthropological avuncular education.

 

Avuncular

 

/əˈvʌŋkjʊlə/

Learn to pronounce

adjective

adjective: avuncular

1.

kind and friendly towards a younger or less experienced person.

"he was avuncular, reassuring, and trustworthy"

2.

ANTHROPOLOGY

relating to the relationship between men and the children of their siblings.

 

It was strangely confusing, this attention from my uncle. Nobody had paid any attention to me before.

 

[9:58 am, 02/09/2022] Ruin: A screaming walk would be wonderful. It would have to be a slow one though, and not too far, with rest stops along the way. The screaming wouldn't have to be slow, we could let that go from the get go. A relapse into hysteria with you would be wondrous indeed.

 

[9:58 am, 02/09/2022] Ruin: But we can also always do that here.

 

Let's sissipate side by side.

 

Rack: I don't think I've ever heard these stories, at least so graphically. You are approaching the very kernel here. Her fury is so furious and so energetic. I can almost relate. I can't help but think about her putting her brother in your bed, or you in his. It strikes me as some weird sacrifice she was making. Offering her brightest up to the altar of interference. Knowing and not knowing. And I suppose sex was for men. My paternal grandmother said the same thing. A thing to be endured. Your mother was going to make you endure it too. Somehow share in that forced ritual. Why did she choose you? Was it an age thing? It's horrifying and fascinating. Sending you love, as always.

  

Ruin: Yes, Rack, this is the crux, the kernel, that molten core. It might be other than what we expect, but this is it. It is also why I don’t want to write an abuse ‘memoir’. It’s not that. It’s not about struggle, triumph over adversity, forgiveness, and a sort of accompanying redemption. It is about ‘drivers’. It’s about innocence too, universal innocence, even. The mater’s innocence, the sibling’s innocence, the abuser’s innocence, and ultimately the self’s innocence. It encompasses the murderer’s, and mass-murderer’s, innocence. It would even include the innocence of those God botherers, those mass-manipulators who pushed their divisive theories of the divine on our susceptible forebears, those so-called priests and nuns. At a push, it might even include bank-managers and CEOs of Fortune-500 companies. Okay, I’ll go the whole hog, artists need to be forgiven too.

 

I would normally sit down, of a morning, and vomit out a spiel, and press the send button. I can’t do that this morning. I have to write this and be as clear as I can be, so there is no misunderstanding as to what I am trying to say.

 

I will just say, firstly, that my mother chose nothing. She was 100% reactive, desperately and fearfully reactive, even. She was, sadly, trapped in a pattern, rather like we all are, to a lesser or greater extent.

 

So, that’s where I am starting from. The rest is about getting as far as time permits.

 

I will answer those questions you brought up, as we go along.

 

Ruin: [10:44 am, 03/09/2022] It was never going to be easy, Crusty Lusty.

 

Rack (from sometime back in the mid-nineties, last century):

 

Funny you should mention staving off the SSRI pillies.†

Lately I have felt them to be an evil† necessity myself and frankly I am tired of them.†

I do need them ‘til I'm de-interfered with, but I think they† make one's character and brain sort of mushy until one reaches a state where you are oddly detached from your "self" and quite happy to be mired knee deep in your own raw sewage.†

 

It's not good.†

I feel impure in a way I can't quite explain, and I'm not prone to

feeling impure.†

 

Ultimately there is something terribly wrong about being incapable of living

without them.†

Why not just look for an honest distraction like alcoholism,

severe junkiedom, or whoredom?†

 

All this modern messing with chemistry.

Anyway, feeling like a reactionary regarding them and god bless you for going

cold turkey and long may it last.†

I'm sure one makes better work without them.

 

I'm† off to the scratcher with my oozing beaver:† ah the last gasps of estrogen as the old uterus pops an egg and screams for something to fill it up.†

Odd this biological baggage we women folk have; all this oozing and cycling and yet

no thought of acting on it.†

 

Modern, eh???

 

Much love,

 

Pox Bunny Beaver Rackety Crust

 

[10:49 am, 03/09/2022] Ruin: You were, and are, a wondrous poet.

 

I love your use of the crucifix. Strangely, the matrix put them there. Somewhere in the transferal from a Word document, or from an email, or whatever. They, the crucifixes just appeared. I like that their placing seems so random, though they do impose a sort of rhythm. This musky Matrix knows best, all praise our new Meta Gods on this soul-saving superhighway. I would not want to remove those religious signifiers put there by whoever is the powers that be.

 

The original ‘Castration Piece’ had a fourth panel. It read "I am Not an Open Beaver". I am putting the titles of art pieces in single parentheses, they refer to pieces made, and either shown at some point or other in Galleries and Museums, or on the WWW, on my only social media platform ‘Flickr’.

 

Rack: I always loved that piece.

 

Ruin: I liked placing it back at ‘The Mammy's Hearth’, that sacrosanct place of no safety.

 

Rack: And blurry you. How the hell do we ever individuate? I feel as if I’m still sissipating up that particular hill.

 

Ruin: We do it whilst sissipating, we are even doing it now. I love our new word.

 

Rack: Me too. Rhymes with dissipating, includes it, of course, but also suggests some progress, even if Sisyphean.

 

Ruin: I am still sitting with those last few questions you asked me, it's going to take time to answer them, but I will. I am worn out, off to the doctor to find out what is happening with my prostate, kidney pains, urinating every 15 minutes, exhaustion, sore groin lymph node (one sided).

 

Rack: Eugh, sounds nasty. No rush on answering those questions. I hope they weren’t “previous” of me to ask. But I am genuinely curious. It goes back to the innocence factor. Anyway, sorry your nether regions are bothering you. I hope it can be resolved in a simple way. All we can hope for our ailments now.

 

Ruin: No questions are "previous", ever. More like "about time", this doo-doo needs sorting out.

Rack: ♥️

Ruin: ♥️💩

  

As for the mater’s fury, he had some ideas relative to the source of that pain and anger. She was never overtly forthcoming with her sharing, regarding her ‘story’ that is, though she would on occasions over-share inappropriately. He recognized this tendency in himself, and in others he had known from the abused fraternity and sorority. This had a sort of uncontrollable Tourette’s-like quality, a certain convulsive vomiting, almost exorcism-like in its urgency to be expelled. He understood it now, but as a child this was confusing. She had been abused, she spoke a little of this later, another errant uncle working his avuncular magic, that undoing of innocence, that unwanted incursion. But she had been abandoned when she was six or seven years old, more or less left as the carer for her three younger siblings, after her mother had died, of TB, at a tender age, somewhere in her early thirties. Her father had left the four children, almost immediately, in the care of some older relatives, disappearing from their lives and remarrying a 17-year-old girl, with whom he had 13 more children. The mater did not see her father again until her own wedding day, when she was 23 years old. So, he surmised, we are talking about abandonment here, that form of neglect and abuse, before that other assault, referenced but never really spoken of. He remembered her cursing that uncle later on, but no details of what happened were ever shared. There was a gap there, another unfillable void.

 

Why the ‘his’? Why the ‘he’? It’s simple really, it gives a once remove, making it all a little easier. It might go back and forth, but who knows? There was also that once remove of the inadequacy of memory. Of course, he wasn’t even sure how much of this was true, even, what parts he remembered and what parts he had dreamed, or what part he had generated to find the wherewithal to forgive himself, and her. He was at a point where he couldn’t easily remember what day yesterday was, never mind familial gathering, sixty years ago, around that infinite family hole. His father’s crater was also there, inadequately filled with alcohol and anger, regrets, sadness, and neglect.

 

They sucked each other in, my parents, warring black holes in love, proffering impossible promises of security to each other, indifferent to everything else including their own children. Or so it seemed. But children can’t surmise all this, they can only pick up on the anger and disappointment, and the complete lack of any vestiges of stability. They each, both parents, made their oaths to be the other’s salvation, as they began quietly, at first, to fail. They stayed together for 60 years, so at least in some way they fulfilled their commitment to each other.

 

Meanwhile their children fell apart.

 

But this is not a story about aborted family dynasties, of triumph over adversity, or the opposite. It’s about another family of sorts, with nothing really to do with DNA extensions, and that striving to fit into some idea of continuity. It is about setting out, breaking away, the ‘Diaspora’, that homelessness, the ‘Wild Geese’, a certain ruthlessness, even. It is partially about recognizing the other as the same, or at least connecting with another where that sameness is sensed. It’s about the ‘Rack and Ruin’ of this fable, a chance encounter in the ‘New World’, and attempts at the rebuilding of ‘Trust’.

 

But the fury is somewhat easy to explain.

 

Downstairs was, a rented, one living room and a small kitchen behind a failing shop, the ‘Bon-Bon’ by name, another unfillable hole, as it would happen. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a box-room, shared by five children and two adults, with the addition of the new bull-interloper, a 20 or 21-year-old, testosterone-overflowing, encroacher.

 

Rack: Amazing stuff. Thank you for sending. I need to read again and assimilate before I respond more fully. So much here! Congratulations on facing it head on.

 

Ruin: I am feeling my way into it. This piece is the continuation of a conversation between you and I. Nothing is edited yet, I am not worrying about that for a while, or perhaps never, who knows? It's stuff I had written before, not in answer to your questions, but I do think it starts to address them. I will get there, though it does start to answer them, your questions I mean. I guess I am limbering up to answer, because yes, it is the kernel. But as I said, I don't want to write an abuse memoir. I want to write about 'drivers'.

 

Off to the doctor to have my prostate prodded. It's been about four years since there were any incursions in that region. I am not feeling great, but ho-hum, perhaps well enough to write some more. I wanted to sit still anyway.

 

Anyway, I am putting that text under the image of the cloud-filled sky from the window of an airplane, more or less adding to it daily. Nobody sees it, it's like a private space. It is further back in my photostream, on Flickr. Pundits tend to look at the newer images, so I can work there almost privately. I like to leave that window open a crack, as you know, just in case I am in the mood to hang my arse out of it. He said, nodding at mister Chaucer, was there no end to this man’s pretensions?

 

Rack: The only way to do it. Not that I would know. Hope the prostate thing is OK. It’s funny how the bits that allow us to reproduce cause the most illness: breasts, prostates, and maybe we can list the heart there too. Feeling quite peculiar, but not in an entirely bad way.

 

Ruin: Maybe indeed, the heart I mean, perhaps it should be even listed first. I suspect that when we get our hearts broken as children, there’s, more or less, no fixing them. I don’t like being around children at all, they feel so ferociously delicate. I never have, my whole life, I mean. This was fortuitous, in that I recognise my own capacity to brutalise, even unintentionally. I am pleased to have never found these small creatures attractive, I know that abuse can sometimes generate that reaction. Thankfully, I was one of the lucky ones, it drove me forward, instead, desperately searching for a father.

 

But back to the mater, back to that bed companion, back to a small room with two beds, shared by four people, 3 brothers and one uncle.

 

He didn’t remember much about the room other than it was small and usually cold. There was no central heating in the house, and no insulation to speak of.

 

Ruin: I am chasing that cuckoo theme or, at least, working my way towards it.

 

Rack: Worth chasing. I have lost my enthusiasm for a lot of things. But have also lost my taste for destroying myself. As if the shortening years are drumming sense into me at last.

 

Ruin: Queen Elizabeth is dead.

 

Rack: I actually have a tear in my eye.

 

Ruin: I understand that. It's a little unreal. She's always been there, I mean from the beginning of our lives.

 

Rack: My mother was enamored of her. They shared an age, both members of the forces during WWII.

 

Ruin: I think my mother was the same age too, at least she claimed to be. She liked her too, but it sort of went against her republicanism

 

Rack: I knew she was a goner when I saw her greeting Liz Truss. Looked feeble for the first time.

 

Ruin: Yes, her hands were all bruised. She had obviously been having transfusions.

 

Rack: Poor love. She really was remarkable.

 

Ruin: Yes, to your "As if the shortening years are drumming sense into me at last ". I am there too

 

Rack: It feels good (the at last). I feel as if I’m negotiating the supermarket aisles with little concern for my fellow shoppers.

 

Ruin: I have been writing to you, still working it out, will write it soon (as an email). I will send it soon rather, when I get a little further

 

Rack: I look forward. And backward.

 

Ruin: I appear to be writing about everything, and making images too

 

Rack: Happy that you are.

 

Ruin: anyway, I will write it out, you will see. Hey, guess what, you are writing it out here too, and I will use it all.

 

Rack: Hah! Work away. Might be the only way I can do it. Obliquely.

 

Ruin: I'll hand it over to you eventually, if you outlive me, as I said before.

 

Rack: One of us has to go first. YIKES.

 

Ruin: Yep, that's how it goes. Yikes, indeed! Unless, of course, we all go together, courtesy of Mr. Putin, or whatever. I am on a new drug for my prostate, apparently it was squeezing my urethra, making my piss flow very difficult, no pressure, slowed down, and it meant I had to pee every 15 mins. One of the side effects is possible priapism, a permanent erection, even. I can feel a series of photos coming on, that 'how to negotiate being a spent old tosser' series.

 

But back to that crowded bedroom, with ice on the inside of the windows and the horsehair overspilling from the mattress, that altar.

 

To the bloody Dickins with the whole shebang.

 

Rack: What a fate your mother had! No wonder she was angry. What a fate you suffered! It’s as if she had to make you endure something similar, that by effecting its repetition she was freeing herself, sacrificing you. Kill the thing you love. It is compelling to read Billy; onward! It never occurred to me that the abuse you endured happened in a crowded room. That your brothers were there. It must have added to everything.

I hope the prostate submits to the new drug and things get more comfortable.

  

There seems to be so much to this falling apart, and the attempts to stave it off with an array of pharmaceuticals. The latest one seems particularly unpleasant, and a balance might have to be found, some sort of compromise with the condition, where it is determined which is more livable with, the affliction or the ‘cure’. The pill-box is now full, or the complement of slots is full, those 4 notches for each day, spacing out the pills, that morning, midday, evening, and night array. This reminded Ruin of Rack’s “ramming 28 horse-pills down my throat every day”, of one of her first emails, some 25 years previously. This also reminded him that four pills a day was not that much of an infringement on his time and effort if he was going to get this ‘epic’ written. He guffawed inwardly at this notion of an epic, whilst recognizing the unwieldiness of it all, that sprawl. It could easily get out of hand, he knew this. Actually, it was already ‘out of hand’ more or less, but he felt that he just had to let this be what it was, for now.

  

Eventually decisions would have to be made. Again, this sounds suspiciously like ‘choices’ would be presenting themselves, but, in reality, there is no choice at all. It is simply about being able to continue, a survival strategy, an instinct. Ruin had been reduced before to a soporific state by ‘life-savers’. For five years he had been on a drug which more or less curtailed all creativity, writing, making art, or even reading. He was determined not to let this happen again. Unfortunately, the medical powers that be, the doctors he encountered, did not appear to be very good at listening, which led to five years of what felt like an anaethesised life, a time felt as though it was spent wading through a particularly dense fog, a treacle even. Eventually, after that unnecessarily extended sluggish exile, Ruin managed to convince the doctor to change the medications, and hey presto, as if by magic, the curtains rose. There’s a lesson to be learnt there, relative to doctors, drugs, and private interests in the Pharma industry, but allowing for the possible duration of a lifespan, one has to choose one’s battles. For this very reason, Ruin was thrilled to see the sterling work by Laura Poitras and Nan Goldin being acknowledged by the Venice Film Festival this week.

  

This is all normal stuff, we all face it at some point, it is part and parcel of growing older, and of particularly having the privilege to do that whilst enjoying last centuries, eclipsed, ‘maladie du jour’. It appears that this new century can, and will, generate its own, and it is somewhat wondrous to see, already, the machinations of science in its attempts to protect us.

  

Ruin believed in science; he did not believe in God. He had watched science work its preserving ‘magic’ both on Rack for 35 years, and on himself for 20 of those shared years. What was not to believe? If some billionaire or other had wanted to tag him with an electronic bugging device, he would have been well tagged already; he had given science total access years ago. He had read, digested, and discarded Duesberg's HIV conspiracy theories way back in the mid-eighties, propagated somewhat by ‘The Village Voice’, as he attempted to support Rack, and as they tried to help each other, through the early tsunamis generated by the same virus. Ruin had all he could stomach of anti-science conspiracy theories three decades before Covid eclipsed everything else in the collective imagination of the general public. Then in the eighties and nineties, Dr. Fauci was the enemy too, and we demonstrated against him and the tardiness of the CDC. We formed ‘Act Up’ and marched, demonstrated, and had ‘die-ins’ in Grand Central Station. Dr. Fauci listened, and eventually acted, proving to be a stalwart comrade in arms.

  

Recently Rack wrote to me (Enter those 1st person pronouns, both singular and plural):

  

Rack: I think we all have a lot of fear about how our behaviour is being policed. Are we racist? Are we transphobic? Are we elitist? Are we mansplaining? As you say, it’s not helpful and it doesn’t actually assist any of the issues it purports to protect. I fear we are in a very dark corner. Some days I find this very liberating. Not all days. Reading about the US government’s attitude to climate change is frightening. Also, Republican’s attitudes towards Anthony Fauci. Horrifying. He has just resigned. Bless.

  

Ruin: Yes, bless indeed, both Science and Doctor Fauci.

 

I am most pleased that we can still write to each other after 35 years of dealing with this disease. No, I don’t believe in God, but I do believe in miracles, and as far as I can see, most of those are, now, generated by Science.

 

A progenitorial alternative might be:

 

"Three drinks of water (holy) taken on three consecutive occasions from The Bishops Skull. This skull is believed to belong to one of three bishops who were murdered for their faith in Penal times. This particular skull is in a very extraordinary state of preservation and is kept at a house named Rielly (sic), near to the village of Mahera in Co. Cavan.

The skull is requisitioned from all parts of Ireland and the cure is well recognised."

 

The Schools Collection volume 0721 page 212.

www.duchas.ie/en/cbes/5009031/4979138

 

Rack: Not too much. I am always fascinated to read, but will admit that there is a part of me that wonders why I am so stuck while your gates are wide open and functioning with such wild and wonderful abandon. It is a form of jealousy, but not just that because I am truly happy you are doing it. So, keep sending and forgive me if my replies are a little constipated. Thinking about your latest missive, the medicated falling apart. Much love.

 

Ruin: I rewrote and added there a bit. I am just shit-scared of not having time left to finish what I have started, so pushing. You are very much there too.

  

As luck would have it, I don’t seem to be able to tolerate these prostate pills. They cause intense palpitations at the slightest exertion. So, I will just have to get on with it, the swollen prostate and all that. It’s not cancer, just swollen, but that causes enough problems anyway, which will just have to be embraced. Yes, to what you were saying about those parts of the body to do with pleasure causing the worst, or most common, problems. It does slightly put me in mind of that red ‘Castration Piece’ I made in the eighties, that fantasy I had, for years, about being neutered. That ‘I fantasized about castrating myself feeling this could free me from the guilt and shame (and pleasure)’. I could now, with those added 35 years on top, add ‘and doctor’s appointments’ to that title. But the response has to be, and is, Yes, a resounding ‘Yes’. Yes to growing older I mean. It remains the best, and the thing I am most grateful for. (Waving at Molly Bloom here, of course).

 

I have never had what are called ‘Panic attacks’ before, the first one I had was in my early sixties when I was on those terrible stultifying TAF including drugs for our shared lurgy. I then started to have them occasionally, plus a host of other exhausting complaints, and that aforementioned pea soup brain-fog. These, more or less, cleared up when I changed drugs. Now, with this new prostate pill they are back with a vengeance, two in three days. These are not panic attacks; they are drug induced palpitations. They are listed as possible side effects. We are, of course, guinea pigs for these wonderful HIV drugs, and I know we are both eternally grateful for that opportunity.

 

Let’s live somewhat longer, let’s describe it, let’s write.

 

But Ruin did have to get back to his mother, and that misunderstanding, that space where some ‘intent’ might be suggested. He needed to somehow exonerate her, to say that it wasn’t her fault, or rather to prove to himself that it wasn’t. He recognized this as being virtually impossible, given his history, their ‘story’, and the reverberations through six decades, but he was going to try anyway. Her history, back story even, can’t really be delved into. There is not enough evidence there, just those initial tales of abandonment, her father, early grieving, her mother, and abuse, her uncle. Ruin could hardly remember his own story, never mind attempting to reconstruct that of the mater, but the pattern was obvious, and the repeat motifs presented themselves unashamedly. Ruin was used to looking for patterns, probably generated by a lifetime making visual art. There were also patterns in the mater’s behaviors, mirrored in his own. These he could see and understand. These were the drivers he wanted to expose. He wanted to explain these to Rack. Rack had been, for over three decades, a type of ‘sounding board’ for him, utterly non-judgmental, hyper vigilant even, with an uncanny ability to proffer solace. He had the idea that this was also mirrored back. They were, somehow, equally scabrous, wanton, lewd, call it what you will, and could laugh uproariously at each other’s coping mechanisms. This was probably central to their ‘screaming walks’ through the canyons of Manhattan in those early days of their beloved plague. Rack was very much the ‘screamer’ then, and Ruin was in awe of her ability to let one rip on a crowded avenue or cross-street, whilst quietly hoping he might be mistaken for her companion-carer. He so loved that embarrassment. He also suspected that she loved watching him attempt to deal with it.

 

Those walks should become legend.

 

Yes, it all happened in a crowded room, a dark one to boot. There were two not quite double beds. Ruin didn’t know what size they were, they weren’t standard anything. He guessed they were more single size; two double beds would not have fit in that room. But this was years before he was aware of those designated sizes, queen, king, whatever. They were old metal frames, with exposed springs, on which the horsehair mattresses scrappily floated. His two younger brothers shared one, he had the other. It was their room, the boy’s room. His parents slept in the small box-room, so his sisters could share the other bedroom, furnished with two single beds. The youngest of the brothers, Johnny, was about 4 years old at the time. He was a troubled child, if his self-rocking was anything to go by. This self-soothing swaying back and forth relentlessly would infuriate his ten-year-old brother, Tony, until Johnny managed to soothe himself to sleep each night. Tony would then become comatose, at last, having endured that rocking until exhaustion intervened. Johnny also slept with his invisible friend ‘Ibi’, so their bed was somewhat overcrowded.

 

Ruin, the oldest, had a bed to himself, a sign of seniority, an acknowledgement of his waxing ‘teenhood’, until that interloper arrived.

 

Here, let me (that personal pronoun again) interject, by way of adding a warning. It’s simple really, and I am directing it towards all parents, of all persuasions and ilks, gender preferences, and identities. It’s blindingly elementary, an iteration I know. Please, never put a mature male in bed with an immature child, no matter how much you trust this male, no matter how close the family relationship might be. But I guess if I was being both fair and honest, I would have to extend this to include all maturated individuals regardless of gender or self-identification. My, perhaps unfair, focus on the male abuser here is because this was the case, both as far as my mother and myself were concerned, those wayward uncles. But then this isn’t about me, so I apologise for any presumptions made.

 

Ruin did not want to share his bed.

 

Yes, Ruin was doing okay. He knew it wasn’t Rack’s job to take the sadness away. How could it be? Anyway, he was doing exactly that himself, and it was about time, in every possible meaning of that phrase. It was about time itself, indeed, nothing more, nothing less. So not counting on any, a godly and honest state if ever there was one, he would get on with it until he no longer could. There’s a definition of fulfilment there, that recognition of oneself as that veritable elephant surfing on the fabled edge of that infinite black hole, and writing this out made him happy, elated even. For what it’s worth, it records itself anyway, endlessly, and anything the universal you or I might choose to add is simply non-essential extra, that ‘Froth on a Daydream’ which Boris Vian liked to write about. It is written for the self, a gift. He was looking at Vian again for a reason, or at least was planning to, it having once been important to him. A new copy sat on his emptying shelves, quietly reverberating. Hum diddley hum. This hum was once beautifully described as ‘the music of the spheres’.

 

There is there, there.

 

Anyway, back to those words of advice, my abridged handbook for would-be parents.

 

Do not circumvent the grooming, do not make it unnecessary by placing a potential predator and a victim in a dark, and silent, bed together. Whilst I am not going to dissect what happened on that mattress, I am going to look at why a child might have erroneously projected that grooming onto his mother for almost 60 years. There’s the crux, Rack, that mistake, that almost lifelong, retarding, projection that might have turned a 68-year-old child into a storyteller.

 

It was almost impossible for that son to describe that mother, to find the words, I mean. But he was going to try. There was no malice there, and she wasn’t stupid. Being stupid and ignorant are not the same thing. But then the whole story is also tinged with her innocence, something which can often be confused with ignorance, but here they were intertwined, and she had no way to pick them apart. These traits were very much part of her Gordian Knot, that imponderable she had inadvertently played forward.

 

To go further he knew he was going to have to do it alone. He was going to have to, temporarily hopefully, let Rack go as well. He knew that it was going too far, and could even be triggering, to use a woke expression, for her. It was almost going too far for himself, even. It felt like an essential step, so he would take it. This would constitute a huge, and frightening, departure, a rupturing, after 25 years of corresponding. He was going to go back alone. She knew where he was, he knew where she was, that would have to be enough for now.

 

There is always that cracked open window here, letting some air in, and stench out.

 

That will be enough in this interim, he guffawed quietly to himself, recklessly Rackless, perhaps, but enough for now.

  

Rack: Have been thinking. And just tell me to fuck off if you disagree or don’t care, but I feel you should be writing in the first person.

 

Ruin: I will work that out, now, or soon. I write in the third person when it becomes too difficult to write about, to get some distance. I now sort of know I can write it, so I better get on with it. The first person might be more immediate, I guess, but I was trying, to a degree, to avoid writing a straight-forward memoir. Anyway, this does need sorting out before I really sit down to it. I think I have the bare bones together now, and need to work on the form it's going to take. I am feeling like withdrawing more to do it, but that frightens me too.

 

Rack: I absolutely get that. And the fear of withdrawing to do it too. Onward. I get so stuck on the small stuff that I cannot proceed at all, so it would be safe to ignore me. Sending love.

 

Ruin: I am not at all sure yet which direction it is going in, in so much as I don't really want to write a 'novel' or a 'memoir'. I am thinking of it as more of connected 'essays', than anything else. Essays on a theme, personal essays, even, perhaps lyrical essays, I am not sure. For now it's just writing. It will include these, Immediate messages, emails, stories, confused memories, and ramblings about ideas, 'drivers', and whatever. There will even be images. The person they are written in can change. I realised that in the writing to you, it should always be in the first person, directly written to you, that personal. But in my enthusiasm found myself sending you some of the 'Ruin (he) had a good wank and fell asleep' stuff. I put all that on Flickr anyway, so you know where it is. I still revolve around images, so I will continue to work there. It is my way, as unorthodox as that might be, and it's more or less private there anyway. I like that promiscuousness, that slightly ajar window, so something can creep out or in, and catch me unawares. It is my only 'Meta' space.

 

I say you know where it is there, but it is now quite hidden. I am working under certain images, add text most days, but these are older images. Only newly added images get attention so these more or less go unseen, as the text develops. I leave little clues but one would have to be quite intrepid to find them.

 

The title, 'A Less Comforting Narrative', refers to the image, and not to the exchange under it.

 

Rack: It’s always an act of faith and you are writing, that’s what counts. The idea of writing essays might be very freeing.

  

But Rack, there is another crux there too, another layer I need to look at, and that is the idea of the self as a ‘groomer’. I am not at all sure why I attack these ideas head on, but it seems I do, or have to (am driven to), at least. OK, perhaps I make cack-handed efforts at this, perhaps there is delusion there, but this is something I have to do, if I am going to be as honest as I can be. This is grooming, this writing I mean, it is enticing, and almost demanding, responses. It appears I might feed off responses, and this is somewhat alarming. As usual, confrontation seems the only way forward, not just to recognize something but to actively attempt to disempower it. This might demand another step, a sort of extension of that quarantine which I have already noted as possibly a way forward. It feels like I should write to you, and not send what I write. In short, I don’t know my own motivations, let alone trust them. I don’t even know if they are mine. I recognize a group of possibly powerful drivers, besides the common or garden ones of background, abuse and general upbringing. All these are more or less universal, perhaps the abuse aspect was more extreme. Then there are the added influences of a sexually generated plague, this we share, and the drugs needed to control that scourge/gift. There is also residual anger, perhaps, at being a ‘failed’ artist, at the aborted attempts I made to try to communicate. This is also more often the case as not, considering the overabundance of ‘Artists’ floatingly enjoying poverty and rejection globally. To attempt to turn that into a ‘La Vie Bohème’, at the age of 68, would border on the farcical, though that in itself might be funny enough to create a page-turner.

 

In July, Thalia wrote to me:

“Yes, It's always interesting when communication happens, but it is also alright with me when it doesn't, for any reason. Nobody can be a perfect Victorian-style correspondent now, even I can't.”

 

Thalia, by another name, is one of those 4 women you commented on, relative to this idea of re-building myself, those ‘good mothers’, those substitutes I have been busily generating all my life. I see that now as a type of grooming, not conscious in the doing of it, but decipherable in retrospect, that looking back I seem to be up to.

 

Of course, you sit there, the ‘Mother Superior’. Next question, are you getting anything out of this? If not, tell me. I will stop writing to you, in fact I won’t. I will write to you in private, but not send it, I mean. I would continue to post the writing where I habitually post it, my afore-mentioned public/private Meta space, that chink of an open-window. This would mean that if you were ever curious you could find it there.

 

I know how relentless I can be, and I also know how exhausting this can be. I am acknowledging this, at last. Let me know what you think so we can begin this next phase in a way that would ensure that there was no grooming in the doing of it.

  

Rack: I need to concentrate on my own work. As is my habit, I get too involved in other people’s stuff in order to avoid my own. It would be awful to never hear from you, maybe there is somewhere in between.

 

Ruin: Yes, I couldn't stand not being in contact. I just need to rein in, to control my need to share, to get approval, awful 'boy stuff'.

 

Rack: god we might be growing up!!!!

 

Ruin: you know I hang on your every word, and can generate 1,000 words from ten from you. But yes, I can do it alone. But it's better with you. But I want you to do your work, not hinder you.

It's time to grow fucking up, for me anyway, you decide when it's your time. 68, little boy lost hasn't got the same appeal. I can't help but think I can do this quicker; I have all the raw material.

 

‘Don't Confront Me With My Failures’.

 

I am so pleased to have gotten here, this plateau of seemingly controllable desire. This burgeoning hormonal hiatus, brought on by years, disease, and the medications for the same ‘affliction’. Even surviving thus far seems somewhat miraculous, from that point of childhood abuse to this unexpected seniority, an adulthood of sorts. It was almost arrived at through no obvious intervention of my own, but there may be some evidence there that could suggest differently. It would seem that all energies were set in self-destruct mode. There was so much luck involved in generating that continuance, but there were also interventions, practical ones, like the leaps and bounds made by science in this age we live in, but also the intervention of loved ones, not family, but those rather who recognized an aspect of 'self' in the 'other' along the way, and stopped long enough to develop mutual caring.

  

These writings are dedicated to two of these paragons. Rack, the titular, and ‘Hem Binnen’, the Dutch ‘Him Indoors’ who saved my life.

  

As to my failings, I know them intimately and will expose them in all their tawdriness as I continue.

  

"There was an old man named Michael Finnegan

He had whiskers on his chinnegan

The wind came along and blew them in again

Poor old Michael Finnegan"

  

Begin Again.

  

Fail again, Fail Better, as our fellow countryman, that other writer in Paris, would have it.

  

But then beginning again is just moving forward.

  

Ruin, Ruin, Ruin, what in god’s name were you up to? Neither of us believe in that geezer with the grey hair, on a cloud, but my exasperation needs letting out, so there he sits omnipotent. Just so you know, I was watching all those 68 years, and I can clearly see the stories you have been telling yourself. It’s almost as if I had nothing better to do than watch over you. But, I guess, someone had to, and that judgmental geezer with his tablet of ten regulations wasn’t really up to that job, now or then, was he? So, I hung around watching, and more or less saw it all, except for those times I might have been comatose in a Ketamine or alcohol haze, beside you. You may have gotten up to some shenanigans at those junctures when I wasn’t exactly compos mentis. My apologies if I missed out on any of your multitudinous ‘calls for help’. None of us are perfect, as you well know. Before we start, get going that is, I should also say that I intend hanging around, watching over you, until your sticky, or otherwise, end. I wouldn’t miss that unravelling for all the gilt bronzes in Tibet. I am in it for the long run, as they say, whoever 'they' might be. I know you are having those memory holes, those vast and growing ever-expanding black holes, but don’t worry there, Ruin. I think I can help out with this, even. You see, I kept a written record, I know, sneaky, but it’s the nature of the graphomaniacal beast, one of my own little foibles that might actually aid and abet your storytelling. I believe we might have shared that letter writing mania, that drive to communicate through correspondence, but we have never really written to each other, have we? I suspect that is about to change. I hope so anyway.

 

Rack, Sorcha and Thalia inspired you to write, I can see that, mostly by being able to tolerate you, it would appear. Perhaps you brought out a mothering aspect in their natures when they saw you in some considerable distress relative to that early abuse. Perhaps it was something else too, some mutual need. There were others too, mostly female others, those correspondents, with the exception of Jonathan, who would be deserving of a separate story, perhaps. Rack spoke of them as the ‘Good Mothers’, those interventional women, those lifesavers.

 

Which more or less takes us to the ‘invisible man’, that centre of those black, expanding, holes, those memory lapses, the ‘Good Father’, or any father at all for that matter. He was purportedly there, constantly in the background, and often used as a threat, but he was there. I seem to remember you even put some photographs of him up on your antiquated Meta site, Flickr. I do see that there might be an absence there, a vacuum, and I have seen all the extremes you have gone to fill that infinite hole. So here I am, a Nelson Eddy to your Jeanette MacDonald (I know, camp and hopelessly dated, I am sorry about that), a top to your bottom, as Jonathan would have it.

 

Write to me, I will write back. Just don’t call me ‘Daddy’, that’s just one step too far, and I know, and understand, your tendency to always overstep those boundaries. I am willing to play at being the ‘Good Father’, until you learn to do that for yourself. I really wouldn't do this for anyone else in this whole wide world, so hopefully this will help you begin to feel better about yourself.

 

Onwards and upwards as the aforementioned 'they' like to say, tomorrow being the first day of the rest of your life and all that cliched palaver. I will do my very best to rein all that corn in as we proceed, a struggle I know. I do believe we might have a job to do, and It's way beyond time to get on with it.

 

I've got your back, for what it's worth.

 

Best Regards,

Top

 

25 September 2022

 

Dearest Top,

 

Embracing the fear of possibly going full Ham, Shem and Japheth, I am going to have to name you. I can’t call you 'Top' for the duration of our correspondence, disregarding the reality that the Top/Bottom synergy thing doesn’t even hold anymore, now that one is post-gay, post-sex, and approaching post-everything, what with oblivion waving tantalisingly, as it is, from the border of that widening gyre (tips hat towards W.B.) of our beloved ‘event horizon’. I think I have even found a name for you. Its partially catholic, even, from that miasma of childhood memories, that “Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I shall build my church, and I will give to thee the keys of the kingdom”.

 

Okay Rock, I am giving you the keys. You, for a while anyway, can be the designated driver, Petrus, that's you, that dependable rock, rock of the walk, even, rock of ages, my Tio Pepe port in a storm, my fellow geriatric mariner. Lash me to your, larger than average, mast, we're off.

 

Welcome to Rack & Ruin, and Rock! It does have a certain alliterative ring, n'est-ce pas? (TYFTC). Fasten your seatbelts, we might be in for somewhat of a bumpy ride.

 

Deliriously yours,

Queerqueg von Lederhosen

 

PS: Are you sure this device works for blocked sinuses?

 

PPS: Relative to the acronym used in this photoplay, please see photo below, entitled: L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.H.I.V+O.A.P

It ain’t heavy, it’s my acronym.

  

Dearest Wuufus Wainscotting,

 

Sorry to her about your troat. Don’t they be at the doing of the blessing of that same gorge anymore, at all, at all? Probably not, I would guess. Perhaps the only church what did it is now boarded up, or turned into a leisure centre where they give Irish dancing lessons to all those young, eager, coiled-springy girls, with the revolving legs and primary-colour gúnas (Gaelic for frocks), in plastic ringlets. You know the ones; they make those Dallas Cowboy’s cheerleaders girls look like vestal virgins, pushed on by their mammies, hello Bernadette Peters, to excel in all that leaping and jiggery-pokery, moving downstage like one of those roman phalanxses, putting the fear of God in every daecent catolick. Anyway, I diverge.

 

Talking of Catholics, no, you ain’t Rock. Rock’s his name, not Peter, or Petrus, or any of those Roman shenanigans, just clear old plain, and sturdy, ‘Rock’, as in that island lodged between the East River, and the Hudson (where I met my beloved Rack), if you get my drift, and the rock of me birth, that emerald-green one you are presently lodged up the backside of. I will admit he is partial to the odd glass of Theo Pepys, and has been known to take an occasional dash along the boreens of the Adirondacks brandishing that emblematic, blue-striped axe. That Daniel Dye Sluice could play him in a moving picture extravaganza, ‘The Last of the Tops’, or somesuch, Oscar fodder no doubt, probably to be found, eventually, in the ‘Science Fiction’ section of our favourite ‘Blokebuster’, down that windy old boreen of a bog road.

 

And what does every poor Irish boy need, dare I say, what does every boy need? I answer here and now, without much hesitation, other than the time it takes to take a gulp of coffee, with a slice of me iced-duck, so that I can take me slew of morning pilules; every boy needs a Rock. You can see that I am substituting, intermittently, the ‘me’ for ‘my’. I do believe I might be enjoying heading for a little regression, and sure why not, on this fine rainy Amsterdam morning? There’s neery a rock here, on this damp sponge of a low-lying place, so a lad would have to be going about inventing his own boulder to support him. And that is simply what I do be doing, as Frank S. used to like to sing.

 

Do be, do be, do, what were the chances?

 

But I regress. Where was I?

 

I remember. I was in Amsterdam about to take me ‘Daddy’s little helpers’, those much-loved lifesavers (said pilules). All praise science and all that palaver. I sit here pin-cushioned, enjoying the wonderful side-effects of the Monkeypox vaccine, and looking forward to when I can enjoy the same from the latest Covid update. Unfortunately, I have to wait a month for that second one, a recommended period of time between that first and second vaccine to ensure they don’t conjoin in some diabolical conspiracy to turn me into a 4G antenna, or something similar.

 

Pillar of salt, Lot’s wife’s lot, and how’s your mother?

 

I don’t think for a minute that that naughty Mr. Gates is out to chip me. As I said, pincushion here, and if he felt a yearning to chip yours truly, he could have had me eons ago. Have at it, Bill. Take me, I was, formerly, anybody’s anyway, writing bad cheques willy-nilly.

 

And breathe.

 

‘Comhbhrú na cruinne ina carraig, agus rolladh i dtreo ceist ró-mhór í’, (trans: Compress the universe into a rock and roll it towards a bloody huge question) as the plagarised ancient Irish bard might have warbled, and more than likely did.

 

No, it isn’t that Rack is non-responsive, it’s more that I am giving her a break from all my 'raiméis' (Gaelic for general doo-doo, shite for want of a better word). It's all been 'ri ra agus ruaile buaile', (gaelic for a gas craic) as far as I am concerned. We have chewed the cud now for 35 long, wonderful, and somewhat excruciating years. That’s not altogether true. We lived on that same rock of Manhattan for 11 years, then wrote to each other for 24 years after that. There are probably a million words lurking there. I think that you recognize that I love letter writing, or it’s modern equivalent anyway, the email. The problem is that the unwieldy words are there, and they are just a part of what lurks on my hard-drive, and I suspect it’s going to take my ‘Rock’ to sort them out. Rock has a pithy character, he takes no prisoners, that tough-love stuff, that ability to tell you when you are being an eejit. Ruin needs Rock more than I do, possibly (oops, reality check there). Anyway, Rack and Ruin could chew the cud relentlessly forever, they could easily become that universal methane generator, much feared of by the powers that do be sitting there Canute-like, holding the tide back, in Brussels.

 

Carraig is the Irish word for Rock, just so you know. Would that not be a great ‘secret’ name, one to make any mammy proud? “Come on over here, darling Carraig, and let me wipe your nose wit me sleeve, you’re snottin all over de kip”. It doesn’t get much better than that in my book. Did you know that kip is the Dutch for chicken?- just saying.

 

I used to love, back on that old Manhattan Rock, when Rack used to croon "It's not your frock my dear", then look at me as if wisdom had been imparted. Rack knew how to make Ruin laugh, it was sort of a mutual thing. It was some 'Hibernafold', sweep me into your fold my dear, understanding stranded between laughing and screaming, that wondrous type of hysteria, infectious, scary, and lovely (Oxford comma usage there, blimey). Pronouns be damned, we know who we are. A pox on all your pronouns, here's to universal interchangeability!

  

Mise Lemas,

 

Ruin O’ Carraig (Gaelic for Ruin, son of Rock)

  

It’s time to get back to that ‘crux’ as Rack called it. It will be slightly different this time, as I won’t be telling it to her, I will be telling it to myself, and to Rock, perhaps. Perhaps this part needs looking at, not only from Ruin’s viewpoint, but from that slightly cynical over-arching perspective that he might be able to bring to this dissection, this evisceration, this vomiting up. I guess it isn’t really about what happened anyway, I mean the details of what happened, these I won’t be telling, but rather the reactions to these stimuli on that rather delicate entity that the child, Ruin, was. He was a stammering wreck of a neglected child, and this was the first time anyone had ever paid any attention to him There was nothing in his arsenal to deal with the repercussions, and no one available who might proffer some help or even a suggestion of an explanation. It happened in cold darkness, and in silence. It happened in his gut.

 

It was most definitely where it happened, there, in the pit of his stomach. He still remembers that feeling, vividly. Yes, that’s present tense, remembers, not remembered. That stays forever, at least for the forever that describes the length of a life, but it can also be projected into a future, through these words, beyond that ‘life’s sentence’. Technically apparently, the hippocampus shrinks, and entombs the memory, creates an imprint that asserts itself for a life’s duration. That’s the sentence, that’s the imprisonment. And why would you want to project that into the future, that delicately butterflied stomach, the answer would be simply to give it a description, to, perhaps, proffer that absent help, or a suggestion of an explanation.

 

He/I/we/they needed Rock there to help explain it to him. He loved that grab-bag of pronouns, a new freedom generated by contemporary politics, which would allow him to seamlessly segue from one to another. Rock could provide the ‘You’, that objective overview, perhaps. He always loved that wonderfully funny narcissistic joke: I am getting sick and tired of relentlessly talking about myself, can you take over and talk about me for a while?

 

Okay Rock, do you want to take over, to give a kid a break?

 

Come on “Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee”

 

1 Oct 2022, 3.08PM CEST

 

Thalia,

 

Strange this idea of letter-writing. I do see it has been excessive, something I have always done too much of, finding some validation there, I would guess. In a way, I want to turn that around. Perhaps I have been inflicting my ‘graphomania’ on others for two long now and it’s time to take responsibility for that myself. I know it’s too easy a diagnosis, one of those that was bandied about some years ago, another over-arching description that, perhaps, doesn’t mean much. That’s something I learnt from you, the need to circumvent easy characterisations.

 

Your: “Yes, It's always interesting when communication happens, but it is also alright with me when it doesn't, for any reason. Nobody can be a perfect Victorian-style correspondent now, even I can't.”

 

That was somewhat of a turning point for me in this, that note, it worked for me. It set me of on some realisation of what I might have been getting up to, over the last few years, and how this might have been somewhat unfair. You probably saw that acknowledged already under ‘A Less Comforting Narrative, (Turku, Finland)’, as I know what a sleuth you can be, acknowledging your “I saw!”. I must admit that I like that you saw.

 

Yes, I guess at some point there might be editing, heavy editing, I imagine, but I am not feeling at all, at the moment, that this is my job. I feel like I am still working through it and into it, getting the substance of it all together. I am currently at that ‘abuse phase’, I have been trying to explain to Rack that my mother is not to blame, and neither was my father, they were just carrying on what they knew, their abuse and abandonment. The more I move on the more I realise I have to talk about universal ‘innocence’, and when I say universal, I mean exactly that, a forgiveness that pardons Jeffrey Dahmer and Adolf Hitler, even, those unspeakable outrages against decency and humanity. This ‘innocence’ doesn’t negate the need for absolute quarantine in cases such as these. For what it’s worth I hold no truck with death sentences, no matter how extreme the actions of the perpetrator of the outrage. It’s a strange journey, that getting around to forgiving everyone so you can forgive yourself, but that does seem to be what I am up to, so I will take it as far as I can. It feels like a good, a necessary, journey.

 

I have been spending the last week releasing Rack, letting go, trusting. Then lo and behold, along came Roc

Sometimes I feel like it's the only word that describes me fully.

 

ob·scene

adj.

1. Offensive to accepted standards of decency or modesty.

2. Inciting lustful feelings; lewd.

3. Repulsive; disgusting.

4. So large in amount as to be objectionable or outrageous.

 

I don't like the way these came out. I can't wait to get a DSLR.

Catching up on some back shots from the beginning of the year

 

On a walk around the Addington Cemetery with a wonderful Flickr friend. February 13, 2016 Christchurch New Zealand.

 

There is so much damaged in the cemetery because of the earthquake we have had. It is such a pity as I don' think it will ever be fully repaired.

 

The Addington Cemetery was established in 1858 when the Scottish Presbyterians of St Andrew’s Church purchased land for a cemetery in Selwyn Street. Although not the first cemetery in Christchurch, Addington was in fact the first “public” cemetery, “being open to all persons of any religious community” and allowing the performance of any religious service “not contrary to public decency”.

 

The first burial took place on the 10th of November 1858. The cemetery has several persons of note buried within its grounds including activist Kate Sheppard, Christchurch Mayor Tommy Taylor and members of the pioneer family, the Deans.

For More Info:http://my.christchurchcitylibraries.com/addington-cemetery/

Nearly halfway through the month, and it's the weekend again, and the the good news is that the sore throat I had on Friday went and did not return.

 

Which is nice.

 

Jools's cough, however, which seemed like it was getting better, returned slightly on Friday evening, and would again on Saturday. We had tockets to see Public Service Bradcasting again, this time in Margate, but our hearts were not in it, if I'm honest, and in the end we decided not to go in light of her coughing, but also as I said, we saw them a month back, though this would be a different show.

 

And Norwich were on the tellybox, what could be better than watching that?

 

Anything, as it turned out.

 

But that was for later.

 

We went to Tesco, a little later than usual, as we had slept in rather, then back home for breakfast before the decision on what to do for the day. Jools decided to stay home to bead and read, I would go out.

 

There are three churches near to home that I feel I needed to revisit, St Margaret's itself I should be able to get the key from the village shop at any time, but St Mary in Dover hasn't been open the last few times I have been in town, and Barfrestone was closed most of the year due to vandalism.

 

But Saturday morning there is usually a coffee morning in St Mary, so I went down armed with camera and lenses to take more shots of the details, especially of the windows.

 

There was a small group with the Vicar, talking in one of the chapels, so I made busy getting my shots, just happy that the church was open. I left a fiver with the vicar, and walked back to the car, passing the old guy supping from a tin of cider sitting outside the church hall.

 

-------------------------------------------------

 

In the heart of the town with a prominent twelfth-century tower. From the outside it is obvious that much work was carried out in the nineteenth century. The church has major connections with the Lord Wardens of the Cinque Ports and is much used for ceremonial services. The western bays of the nave with their low semi-circular arches are contemporary with the tower, while the pointed arches to the east are entirely nineteenth century. The scale and choice of stone is entirely wrong, although the carving is very well done. However the east end, with its tall narrow lancet windows, is not so successful. The Royal Arms, of the reign of William and Mary, are of carved and painted wood, with a French motto - Jay Maintendray - instead of the more usual Dieu et Mon Droit. The church was badly damaged in the Second World War, but one of the survivors was the typical Norman font of square Purbeck marble construction. One of the more recent additions to the church is the Herald of Free Enterprise memorial window of 1989 designed by Frederick Cole.

 

www.kentchurches.info/church.asp?p=Dover+1

 

-------------------------------------------

 

THE TOWN AND PORT OF DOVER.

DOVER lies at the eastern extremity of Kent, adjoining to the sea, the great high London road towards France ending at it. It lies adjoining to the parish of Charlton last-described, eastward, in the lath of St. Augustine and eastern division of the county. It is within the liberty of the cinque ports, and the juristion of the corporation of the town and port of Dover.

 

DOVER, written in the Latin Itinerary of Antonine, Dubris. By the Saxons, Dorsa, and Dofris. By later historians, Doveria; and in the book of Domesday, Dovere; took its name most probably from the British words, Dufir, signifying water, or Dusirrha, high and steep, alluding to the cliffs adjoining to it. (fn. 1)

 

It is situated at the extremity of a wide and spacious valley, inclosed on each side by high and steep hills or cliffs, and making allowance for the sea's withdrawing itself from between them, answers well to the description given of it by Julius Cæfar in his Commentaries.

 

In the middle space, between this chain of high cliffs, in a break or opening, lies the town of Dover and its harbour, which latter, before the sea was shut out, so late as the Norman conquest, was situated much more within the land than it is at present, as will be further noticed hereafter.

 

ON THE SUMMIT of one of these cliffs, of sudden and stupendous height, close on the north side of the town and harbour, stands DOVER CASTLE, so famous and renowned in all the histories of former times. It is situated so exceeding high, that it is at most times plainly to be seen from the lowest lands on the coast of France, and as far beyond as the eye can discern. Its size, for it contains within it thirty five acres of ground, six of which are taken up by the antient buildings, gives it the appearance of a small city, having its citadel conspicuous in the midst of it, with extensive fortifications, around its walls. The hill, or rather rock, on which it stands, is ragged and steep towards the town and harbour; but towards the sea, it is a perpendicular precipice of a wonderful height, being more than three hundred and twenty feet high, from its basis on the shore.

 

Common tradition supposes, that Julius Cæfar was the builder of this castle, as well as others in this part of Britain, but surely without a probability of truth; for our brave countrymen found Cæfar sufficient employment of a far different sort, during his short stay in Britain, to give him any opportunity of erecting even this one fortress. Kilburne says, there was a tower here, called Cæsar's tower, afterwards the king's lodgings; but these, now called the king's keep, were built by king Henry II. as will be further mentioned hereafter; and he further says, there were to be seen here great pipes and casks bound with iron hoops, in which was liquor supposed to be wine, which by long lying had become as thick as treacle, and would cleave like birdlime; salt congealed together as hard as stone; cross and long bows and arrows, to which brass was fastened instead of feathers, and they were of such size, as not to be fit for the use of men of that or any late ages. These, Lambarde says, the inhabitants shewed as having belonged to Cæfar, and the wine and salt as part of the provision he had brought with him hither; and Camden relates, that he was shewn these arrows, which he thinks were such as the Romans used to shoot out of their engines, which were like to large crossbows. These last might, no doubt, though not Cæsar's, belong to the Romans of a later time; and the former might, perhaps, be part of the provisions and stores which king Henry VIII. laid in here, at a time when he passed from hence over sea to France. But for many years past it has not been known what is become of any of these things.

 

Others, averse to Cæsar's having built this castle, and yet willing to give the building of it to the empire of the Romans of a later time, suppose, and that perhaps with some probability, it was first erected by Arviragus, (or Arivog, as he is called on his coin) king of Britain, in the time of Claudius, the Roman emperor. (fn. 2)

 

That there was one built here, during the continuance of the Roman empire in Britain, must be supposed from the necessity of it, and the circumstances of those times; and the existence of one plainly appears, from the remains of the tower and other parts of the antient church within it, and the octagon tower at the west end, in which are quantities of Roman brick and tile. These towers are evidently the remains of Roman work, the former of much less antiquity than the latter, which may be well supposed to have been built as early as the emperor Claudius, whose expedition hither was about or immediately subsequent to the year of Christ 44. Of these towers, probably the latter was built for a speculum, or watch-tower, and was used, not only to watch the approach of enemies, but with another on the opposite hill, to point out the safe entrance into this port between them, by night as well as by day.

 

In this fortress, the Romans seem afterwards to have kept a garrison of veterans, as we learn from Pancirollus, who tells us that a company of soldiers under their chief, called Præpositus Militum Tungricanorum, was stationed within this fortess.

 

Out of the remains of part of the above-mentioned Roman buildings here, a Christian church was erected, as most historians write, by Lucius, king of Britain, about the year 161; but it is much to be doubted whether there ever was such a king in Britain; if there was, he was only a tributary chief to the Roman emperor, under whose peculiar government Britain was then accounted. This church was built, no doubt, for the use of that part of the garrison in particular, who were at that time believers of the gospel, and afterwards during the different changes of the Christian and Pagan religions in these parts, was made use of accordingly, till St. Augustine, soon after the year 597, at the request of king Ethelbert, reconsecrated it, and dedicated it anew, in honour of the blessed Virgin Mary.

 

¶His son and successor Eadbald, king of Kent, founded a college of secular canons and a provost in this church, whose habitations, undoubtedly near it, there are not the least traces of. These continued here till after the year 691; when Widred, king of Kent, having increated the fortifications, and finding the residence of the religious within them an incumbrance, removed them from hence into the town of Dover, to the antient church of St. Martin; in the description of which hereafter, a further account of them will be given.

  

DOVER does not seem to have been in much repute as a harbour, till some time after Cæsar's expedition hither; for the unfitness, as well as insecurity of the place, especially for a large fleet of shipping, added to the character which he had given of it, deterred the Romans from making a frequent use of it, so that from Boleyne, or Gessoriacum, their usual port in Gaul, they in general failed with their fleets to Richborough, or Portus Rutupinus, situated at the mouth of the Thames, in Britain, and thence back again; the latter being a most safe and commodious haven, with a large and extensive bay.

 

Notwithstanding which, Dover certainly was then made use of as a port for smaller vessels, and a nearer intercourse for passengers from the continent; and to render the entrance to it more safe, the Romans built two Specula, or watch-towers, here, on the two hills opposite to each other, to point out the approach to it, and one likewise on the opposite hill at Bologne, for the like purpose there; and it is mentioned as a port by Antoninus, in his Itinerary, in which, ITER III. is A Londinio ad Portum Dubris, i. e. from London to the port of Dover.

 

After the departure of the Romans from Britain, when the port of Bologne, as well as Richborough, fell into decay and disuse, and instead of the former a nearer port came into use, first at Whitsan, and when that was stopped up, a little higher at Calais, Dover quickly became the more usual and established port of passage between France and Britain, and it has continued so to the present time.

 

When the antient harbour of Dover was changed from its antient situation is not known; most probably by various occurrences of nature, the sea left it by degrees, till at last the farmer scite of it became entirely swallowed up by the beach. That the harbour was much further within land, even at the time of the conquest than it is at present, seems to be confirmed by Domesday, in which it is said, that at the entrance of it, there was a mill which damaged almost every ship that passed by it, on account of the great swell of the sea there. Where the scite of this mill was, is now totally unknown, though it is probable it was much within the land, and that by the still further accumulation of the beach, and other natural causes, this haven was in process of time so far filled up towards the inland part of it, as to change its situation still more to the south-west, towards the sea.

 

From the time of the Norman conquest this port continued the usual passage to the continent, and to confine the intercourse to this port only, there was a statute passed anno 4 Edward IV. that none should take shipping for Calais, but at Dover. (fn. 20) But in king Henry VII.'s time, which was almost the next reign, the harbour was become so swerved up, as to render it necessary for the king's immediate attention, to prevent its total ruin, and he expended great sums of money for its preservation. But it was found, that all that was done, would not answer the end proposed, without the building of a pier to seaward, which was determined on about the middle of Henry VIII.'s reign, and one was constructed, which was compiled of two rows of main posts, and great piles, which were let into holes hewn in the rock underneath, and some were shod with iron, and driven down into the main chalk, and fastened together with iron bands and bolts. The bottom being first filled up with great rocks of stone, and the remainder above with great chalk stones, beach, &c. During the whole of this work, the king greatly encouraged the undertaking, and came several times to view it; and in the whole is said to have expended near 63,000l. on it. But his absence afterwards abroad, his ill health, and at last his death, joined to the minority of his successor, king Edward VI. though some feeble efforts were made in his reign, towards the support of this pier, put a stop to, and in the end exposed this noble work to decay and ruin.

 

Queen Mary, indeed, attempted to carry it on again, but neither officers nor workmen being well paid, it came to nothing, so that in process of time the sea having brought up great quantities of beach again upon it, the harbour was choaked up, and the loss of Calais happening about the same time, threatened the entire destruction of it. Providentially the shelf of beach was of itself became a natural defence against the rage of the sea, insomuch, that if a passage could be made for ships to get safely within it, they might ride there securely.

 

To effect this, several projects were formed, and queen Elizabeth, to encourage it, gave to the town the free transportation of several thousand quarters of corn and tuns of beer; and in the 23d of her reign, an act passed for giving towards the repair of the harbour, a certain tonnage from every vessel above twenty tons burthen, passing by it, which amounted to 1000l. yearly income; and the lord Cobham, then lordwarden, and others, were appointed commissioners for this purpose; and in the end, after many different trials to effect it, a safe harbour was formed, with a pier, and different walls and sluices, at a great expence; during the time of which a universal diligence and public spirit appeared in every one concerned in this great and useful work. During the whole of the queen's reign, the improvement of this harbour continued without intermission, and several more acts passed for that purpose; but the future preservation of it was owing to the charter of incorporation of the governors of it, in the first year of king James I. by an act passed that year, by the name of the warden and assistants of the harbour of Dover, the warden being always the lord-warden of the cinque ports for the time being, and his assistants, his lieutenant, and the mayor of Dover, for the time being, and eight others, the warden and assistants only making a quorum; six to be present to make a session; at any of which, on a vacancy, the assistants to be elected; and the king granted to them his land or waste ground, or beach, commonly called the Pier, or Harbour ground, as it lay without Southgate, or Snargate, the rents of which are now of the yearly value of about three hundred pounds.

 

Under the direction of this corporation, the works and improvements of this harbour have been carried on, and acts of parliament have been passed in almost every reign since, to give the greater force to their proceedings.

 

From what has been said before, the reader will observe, that this harbour has always been a great national object, and that in the course of many ages, prodigious sums of money have been from time to time expended on it, and every endeavour used to keep it open, and render it commodious; but after all these repeated endeavours and expences, it still labours under such circumstances, as in a very great degree renders unsuccessful all that has ever been done for that purpose.

 

DOVER, as has been already mentioned, was of some estimation in the time of the Roman empire in Britain, on account of its haven, and afterwards for the castle, in which they kept a strong garrison of sol. diers, not only to guard the approach to it, but to keep the natives in subjection; and in proof of their residence here, the Rev. Mr. Lyon some years since discovered the remains of a Roman structure, which he apprehended to have been a bath, at the west end of the parish-church of St. Mary, in this town, which remains have since repeatedly been laid open when interments have taken place there.

 

This station of the Romans is mentioned by Antonine, in his Itinerary of the Roman roads in Britain, by the name of Dubris, as being situated from the station named Durovernum, or Canterbury, fourteen miles; which distance, compared with the miles as they are now numbered from Canterbury, shews the town, as well as the haven, for they were no doubt contiguous to each other, to have both been nearer within land than either of them are at present, the present distance from Canterbury being near sixteen miles as the road now goes, The sea, indeed, seems antiently to have occupied in great part the space where the present town of Dover, or at least the northwest part of it, now stands; but being shut out by the quantity of beach thrown up, and the harbour changed by that means to its present situation, left that place a dry ground, on which the town of Dover, the inhabitants following the traffic of the harbour, was afterwards built.

 

This town, called by the Saxons, Dofra, and Dofris; by later historians, Doveria; and in Domesday, Dovere; is agreed by all writers to have been privileged before the conquest; and by the survey of Domesday, appears to have been of ability in the time of king Edward the Confessor, to arm yearly twenty vessels for sea service. In consideration of which, that king granted to the inhabitants, not only to be free from the payment of thol and other privileges throughout the realm, but pardoned them all manner of suit and service to any of his courts whatsoever; and in those days, the town seems to have been under the protection and government of Godwin, earl of Kent, and governor of this castle.

 

Soon after the conquest, this town was so wasted by fire, that almost all the houses were reduced to ashes, as appears by the survey of Domesday, at the beginning of which is the following entry of it:

 

DOVERE, in the time of king Edward, paid eighteen pounds, of which money, king E had two parts, and earl Goduin the third. On the other hand, the canons of St. Martin had another moiety. The burgesses gave twenty ships to the king once in the year, for fifteen days; and in each ship were twenty and one men. This they did on the account that he had pardoned them sac and soc. When the messengers of the king came there, they gave for the passage of a horse three pence in winter, and two in summer. But the burgesses found a steerman, and one other assistant, and if there should be more necessary, they were provided at his cost. From the festival of St. Michael to the feast of St. Andrew, the king's peace was in the town. Sigerius had broke it, on which the king's bailiff had received the usual fine. Whoever resided constantly in the town paid custom to the king; he was free from thol throughout England. All these customs were there when king William came into England. On his first arrival in England, the town itself was burnt, and therefore its value could not be computed how much it was worth, when the bishop of Baieux received it. Now it is rated at forty pounds, and yet the bailiff pays from thence fifty-four pounds to the king; of which twenty-four pounds in money, which were twenty in an one, but thirty pounds to the earl by tale.

 

In Dovere there are twenty-nine plats of ground, of which the king had lost the custom. Of these Robert de Romenel has two. Ralph de Curbespine three. William, son of Tedald, one. William, son of Oger, one. William, son of Tedold, and Robert niger, six. William, son of Goisfrid, three, in which the guildhall of the burgesses was. Hugo de Montfort one house. Durand one. Rannulf de Colubels one. Wadard six. The son of Modbert one. And all these vouch the bishop of Baieux as the protector and giver of these houses. Of that plat of ground, which Rannulf de Colubels holds, which was a certain outlaw, they agree that the half of the land was the king's, and Rannulf himself has both parts. Humphry the lame man holds one plat of ground, of which half the forfeiture is the king's. Roger de Ostrabam made a certain house over the king's water, and held to this time the custom of the king; nor was a house there in the time of king Edward. In the entrance of the port of Dovere, there is one mill, which damages almost every ship, by the great swell of the sea, and does great damage to the king and his tenants; and it was not there in the time of king Edward. Concerning this, the grandson of Herbert says, that the bishop of Baieux granted it to his uncle Herbert, the son of Ivo.

 

And a little further, in the same record, under the bishop's possessions likewise:

 

In Estrei hundred, Wibertus holds half a yoke, which lies in the gild of Dover, and now is taxed with the land of Osbert, the son of Letard, and is worth per annum four shillings.

 

From the Norman conquest, the cities and towns of this realm appear to have been vested either in the crown, or else in the clergy or great men of the laity, and they were each, as such, immediately lords of the same. Thus, when the bishop of Baieux, to whom the king had, as may be seen by the above survey, granted this town, was disgraced. It returned into the king's hands by forfeiture, and king Richard I. afterwards granted it in ferme to Robt. Fitz-bernard. (fn. 21)

 

After the time of the taking of the survey of Domesday, the harbour of Dover still changing its situation more to the south-westward, the town seems to have altered its situation too, and to have been chiefly rebuilt along the sides of the new harbour, and as an encouragement to it, at the instance, and through favour especially to the prior of Dover, king Edward I. in corporated this town, the first that was so of any of the cinque ports, by the name of the mayor and commonalty. The mayor to be chosen out of the latter, from which body he was afterwards to chuse the assistants for his year, who were to be sworn for that purpose. At which time, the king had a mint for the coinage of money here; and by patent, anno 27 of that reign, the table of the exchequer of money was appointed to be held here, and at Yarmouth. (fn. 22) But the good effects of these marks of the royal favour were soon afterwards much lessened, by a dreadful disaster; for the French landed here in the night, in the 23d year of that reign, and burnt the greatest part of the town, and several of the religious houses, in it, and this was esteemed the more treacherousk, as it was done whilst the two cardinals were here, treating for a peace between England and France; which misfortune, however, does not seem to have totally impoverished it, for in the 17th year of the next reign of king Edward II it appears in some measure to have recovered its former state, and to have been rebuilt, as appears by the patent rolls of that year, in which the town of Dover is said to have then had in it twenty-one wards, each of which was charged with one ship for the king's use; in consideration of which, each ward had the privilege of a licensed packetboat, called a passenger, from Dover across the sea to Whitsan, in France, the usual port at that time of embarking from thence.

 

The state of this place in the reign of Henry VIII. is given by Leland, in his Itinerary, as follows:

 

"Dovar ys xii myles fro Canterbury and viii fro Sandwich. Ther hath bene a haven yn tyme past and yn taken ther of the ground that lyith up betwyxt the hilles is yet in digging found wosye. Ther hath bene found also peeces of cabelles and anchores and Itinerarium Antonini cawlyth hyt by the name of a haven. The towne on the front toward the se hath bene right strongly walled and embateled and almost al the residew; but now yt is parly fawlen downe and broken downe. The residew of the towne as far as I can perceyve was never waulled. The towne is devided into vi paroches. Wherof iii be under one rose at S. Martines yn the hart of the town. The other iii stand that yt hath be walled abowt but not dyked. The other iii stand abrode, of the which one is cawled S. James of Rudby or more likely Rodeby a statione navium. But this word ys not sufficient to prove that Dovar showld be that place, the which the Romaynes cawlled Portus Rutupi or Rutupinum. For I cannot yet se the contrary but Retesboro otherwise cawlled Richeboro by Sandwich, both ways corruptly, must neades be Rutupinum. The mayne strong and famose castel of Dovar stondeth on the loppe of a hille almost a quarter of a myle of fro the towne on the lyst side and withyn the castel ys a chapel, yn the sides wherof appere sum greate Briton brykes. In the town was a great priory of blacke monkes late suppressed. There is also an hospitalle cawlled the Meason dew. On the toppe of the hye clive betwene the towne and the peere remayneth yet abowt a slyte shot up ynto the land fro the very brymme of the se clysse as ruine of a towr, the which has bene as a pharos or a mark to shyppes on the se and therby was a place of templarys. As concerning the river of Dovar it hath no long cowrse from no spring or hedde notable that descendith to that botom. The principal hed, as they say is at a place cawled Ewelle and that is not past a iii or iiii myles fro Dovar. Ther be springes of frech waters also at a place cawled Rivers. Ther is also a great spring at a place cawled …… and that once in a vi or vii yeres brasted owt so abundantly that a great part of the water cummeth into Dovar streme, but als yt renneth yn to the se betwyxt Dovar and Folchestan, but nerer to Folchestan that is to say withyn a ii myles of yt. Surely the hedde standeth so that it might with no no great cost be brought to run alway into Dovar streame." (fn. 23)

Cougate Crosse-gate Bocheruy-gate stoode with toures toward the se. There is beside Beting-gate and Westegate.

Howbeyt MTuine tol me a late that yt hath be walled abowt but not dyked.

 

This was the state of Dover just before the time of the dissolution of religious houses, in Henry VIII.'s reign, when the abolition of private masses, obits, and such like services in churches, occasioned by the reformation, annillilated the greatest part of the income of the priests belonging to them, in this as well as in other towns, in consequence of which most of them were deserted, and falling to ruin, the parishes belonging to them were united to one or two of the principal ones of them. Thus, in this town, of the several churches in it, two only remained in use for divine service, viz. St. Mary's and St. James's, to which the parishes of the others were united.

 

After this, the haven continuting to decay more than ever, notwithstanding the national assistance afforded to it, the town itself seemed hastening to impoverishment. What the state of it was in the 8th year of queen Elizabeth, may be seen, by the certificate returned by the queen's order of the maritime places, in her 8th year, by which it appears that there were then in Dover, houses inhabited three hundred and fifty-eight; void, or lack of inhabiters, nineteen; a mayor, customer, comptroller of authorities, not joint but several; ships and crayers twenty, from four tons to one hundred and twenty.

 

¶This probable ruin of the town, however, most likely induced the queen, in her 20th year, to grant it a new charter of incorporation, in which the manner of chusing mayor, jurats, and commoners, and of making freemen, was new-modelled, and several surther liberties and privileges granted, and those of the charter of king Edward I. confirmed likewise by inspeximus. After which, king Charles II. in his 36th year, anno 1684, granted to it a new charter, which, however, was never inrolled in chancery, and in consequence of a writ of quo warranto was that same year surrendered, and another again granted next year; but this last, as well as another charter granted by king James II. and forced on the corporation, being made wholly subservient to the king's own purposes, were annulled by proclamation, made anno 1688, being the fourth and last year of his reign: but none of the above charters being at this time extant, (the charters of this corporation, as well as those of the other cinque ports, being in 1685, by the king's command, surrendered up to Col. Strode, then governor of Dover castle, and never returned again, nor is it known what became of them,) Dover is now held to be a corporation by prescription, by the stile of the mayor, jurats, and commonalty of the town and port of Dover. It consists at present of a mayor, twelve jurats, and thirty-six commoners, or freemen, together with a chamberlain, recorder, and town-clerk. The mayor, who is coroner by virtue of his office, is chosen on Sept. 8, yearly, in St. Mary's church, and together with the jurats, who are justices within this liberty, exclusive of all others, hold a court of general sessions of the peace and gaol delivery, together with a court of record, and it has other privileges, mostly the same as the other corporations, within the liberties of the cinque ports. It has the privilege of a mace. The election of mayor was antiently in the church of St. Peter, whence in 1581 it was removed to that of St. Mary, where it has been, as well as the elections of barons to serve in parliament, held ever since. These elections here, as well as elsewhere in churches, set apart for the worship of God, are certainly a scandal to decency and religion, and are the more inexcusable here, as there is a spacious court-hall, much more fit for the purposes. After this, there was another byelaw made, in June, 1706, for removing these elections into the court-hall; but why it was not put in execution does not appear, unless custom prevented it—for if a decree was of force to move them from one church to another, another decree was of equal force to remove them from the church to the courthall. Within these few years indeed, a motion was made in the house of commons, by the late alderman Sawbridge, a gentlemand not much addicted to speak in favour of the established church, to remove all such elections, through decency, from churches to other places not consecrated to divine worship; but though allowed to be highly proper, yet party resentment against the mover of it prevailed, and the motion was negatived by a great majority.

 

The mayor is chosen by the resident freemen. The jurats are nominated from the common-councilmen by the jurats, and appointed by the mayor, jurats, and common-councilmen, by ballot.

  

THE CHURCH OF ST. Mary stands at some distance from the entrance into this town from Canterbury, near the market-place. It is said to have been built by the prior and convent of St. Martin, (fn. 47) in the year 1216; but from what authority, I know not.—Certain it is, that it was in king John's reign, in the gift of the king, and was afterwards given by him to John de Burgh; but in the 8th year of Richard II.'s reign, anno 1384, it was become appropriated to the abbot of Pontiniac. After which, by what means, I cannot discover, this appropriation, as well as the advowson of the church, came into the possession of the master and brethren of the hospital of the Maison Dieu, who took care that the church should be daily served by a priest, who should officiate in it for the benefit of the parish. In which state it continued till the suppression of the hospital, in the 36th year of king Henry VIII.'s reign, when it came into the hands of the crown, at which time the parsonage was returned by John Thompson, master of the hospital, to be worth six pounds per annum.

 

Two years after which, the king being at Dover, at the humble entreaty of the inhabitants of this parish, gave to them, as it is said, this church, with the cemetery adjoining to it, to be used by them as a parochial church; at the same time he gave the pews of St. Martin's church for the use of it; and on the king's departure, in token of possession, they sealed up the church doors; since which, the patronage of it, which is now esteemed as a perpetual curacy, the minister of it being licensed by the archbishop, has been vested in the inhabitants of this parish. Every parishioner, paying scot and lot, having a vote in the chusing of the minister, whose maintenance had been from time to time, at their voluntary option, more or less. It is now fixed at eighty pounds per annum. Besides which he has the possession of a good house, where he resides, which was purchased by the inhabitants in 1754, for the perpetual use of the minister of it. It is exempt from the jurisdiction of the archdeacon. (fn. 48)

 

There is a piece of ground belonging, as it is said, to the glebe of this church, rented annually at ten pounds, which is done by vestry, without the minister being at all concerned in it. In 1588 here were eight hundred and twenty-one communicants. This parish contains more than five parts out of six of the whole town, and a greater proportion of the inhabitants.

 

The church of St. Mary is a large handsome building of three isles, having a high and south chancel, all covered with lead, and built of flints, with ashler windows and door cases, which are arched and ornamented. At the west end is the steeple, which is a spire covered with lead, in which are eight bells, a clock, and chimes. The pillars in the church are large and clumsy; the arches low and semicircular in the body, but eliptical in the chancel; but there is no separation between the body and chancel, and the pews are continued on to the east end of the church. In the high chancel, at the eastern extremity of it, beyond the altar, are the seats for the mayor and jurats; and here the mayor is now chosen, and the barons in parliament for this town and port constantly elected.

 

In 1683, there was a faculty granted to the churchwardens, to remove the magistrates seats from the east end of the church to the north side, or any other more convenient part of it, and for the more decent and commodious placing the communion table: in consequence of which, these seats were removed, and so placed, but they continued there no longer than 1689, when, by several orders of vestry, they were removed back again to where they remain at present.

 

The mayor was antiently chosen in St. Peter's church; but by a bye-law of the corporation, it was removed to this church in 1583, where it has ever since been held. In 1706, another bye law was made, to remove, for the sake of decency, all elections from this church to the court-hall, but it never took place. More of which has been mentioned before.

 

From the largeness, as well as the populousness of this parish, the church is far from being sufficient to contain the inhabitants who resort to it for public worship, notwithstanding there are four galleries in it, and it is otherwise well pewed. This church was paved in 1642, but it was not ceiled till 1706. In 1742, there was an organ erected in it. The two branches in it were given, one by subscription in 1738, and the other by the pilots in 1742.

 

Thomas Toke, of Dover, buried in the chapel of St. Katharine, in this church, by his will in 1484, gave seven acres of land at Dugate, under Windlass-down, to the wardens of this church, towards the repairs of it for ever.

 

¶The monuments and memorials in this church and church yard, are by far too numerous to mention here. Among them are the following: A small monument in the church for the celebrated Charles Churchill, who was buried in the old church-yard of St. Martin in this town, as has been noticed before; and a small stone, with a memorial for Samuel Foote, esq. the celebrated comedian, who died at the Ship inn, and had a grave dug for him in this church, but was afterwards carried to London, and buried there. A monument and several memorials for the family of Eaton; arms, Or, a sret, azure. A small tablet for John Ker, laird of Frogden, in Twit dale, in Scotland, who died suddenly at Dover, in his way to France, in 1730. Two monuments for Farbrace, arms, Azure, a bend, or, between two roses, argent, seeded, or, bearded vert. A monument in the middle isle, to the memory of the Minet family. In the north isle are several memorials for the Gunmans, of Dover; arms,. … a spread eagle, argent, gorged with a ducal coronet, or. There are others, to the memory of Broadley, Rouse, and others, of good account in this town.

 

www.british-history.ac.uk/survey-kent/vol9/pp475-548

don't steal.

 

this isn't directed at anyone who regularly visits my stream. in fact, i'm not aware of anyone ever stealing images from me. however, today, i was looking around tumblr and one of the girls i was following had posted a photo i had looked at (and really liked) the day before. however, she left no credit on the photo, nothing at all, as if the picture was hers. things like that aren't fair. i know that some people specifically ask that you don't blog or use their photos without their express permission, and i really respect that, because photos are yours and you should be able to say in how they're used. i know people don't always listen to the photographer's wishes and use the photos anyway. however, i would like to believe that most have the decency to give credit where credit is due.

when i was in second grade, a boy in my class copied a poem i wrote and put his name on it. i didn't see the problem (i was 7) but the teacher did, and gave us all a lecture about how that's called plagiarism and is a very bad thing to do. i guess ever since i've been really sensitive to people using or submitting work that isn't theirs. it's wrong.

 

i'm sorry you had to read all that, i was just really upset to actually see an example of a beautiful picture being used wrongly. if you want to use my images, please ask me. if you are going to use them anyway, don't take credit away from me.