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On this morning we had expected to see SnƦfellsjƶkull, the large glacier capped Volcano at the west end of the SnƦfellsnes Peninsula. However, clouds shrouded the top and we had periods of light rain. By early afternoon this photo is still typical of the views we were getting of the mountain for the entire morning. This view was taken in SnƦfellsjƶkull National Park near Farm at Malarrif where the park's visitor' center is located. The craggy rocks in the foreground is an approximately 8,000 year old basaltic lava flow covered with moss. SnƦfellsjƶkull itself is a large stratovolcano that forms the west end of the SnƦfellsnes Peninsula. The small glacier and snow field that caps the top of the volcano is still shrouded in clouds in this photo. The name of the mountain is actually SnƦfell, but it is normally called "SnƦfellsjƶkull", which means SnƦfell glacier, to distinguish it from two other mountains with this name.
Took the Banff Gondola to the top of Sulphur Mountain. Some spectacular views and falling snow ( not what we were expecting in August!). The native residents of this mountain peak are these cute little ground squirrels. And after three landscapes in a row it must be time for some wildlife...
Expect the unexpected. The day after the gerewol; i visited the local market at Poli. Knowing that alot of the Mbororo were still in the bush or underway to their homes... i didn't have high expectations of visiting the market. But all of a sudden there were 2 incredible Mbororo girls shopping for clothes. With the colorful backdrop of shirts; it made it for me a wonderful shot.
Taken with the Canon R6 + RF 50mm F1.2
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Happy Movie Monday everyone, I don't expect most people to recognize this movie, but if you do awesome!
I wanted to do a Stephen King tribute somewhere in my series, and then when George A. Romero died I knew I had to do something for him as well. With this 80's movie I was able to tribute both in one photo! Creepshow is an anthology film with a comic book-y feel to it, directed by George A. Romero and written by Stephen King. The image above is depicting me and my friends' favorite story from the movie "Father's Day"
Follow this series on facebook or instagram and check out my blog for posts about this series!
I never expected to see the day flying Chimney Sweeper moth in my garden as their larval foodplant is "PIgnut" which is only found a 1000mts away from my garden. But research reading says that larvae have been observed feeding on "Cow Parsley" of which there is plenty, only 50mts away from my garden. So maybe this species may become a regular visitor to my garden in Empingham in the future.
Unfortunately only two grab shots of this moth before it took off.
A lot has happened since I last posted a photo almost two months ago. I ended up moving, my business took off in ways I never expected and just last week I took a last minute trip to Orlando to meet a new client. That meant that I had a few days at the parks and got to hang out with some flickr friends who also happened to be visiting.
I had a great time with Alan Rappaport, his friend John, Brendan Bowen, Mike Besant and Allen Castillo. We also quickly bumped into Joseph Vernuccio. I had not planned on spending a ton of time in the parks so I didn't make many plans or contact the locals. Alan and I made plans to meetup a few days before the trip but all the others I happened to meet while in the parks shooting.
It was a quick trip and I did not plan on doing a ton of photography. In the end though I took a ton more photos than I had planned on and after doing a quick review, I am very excited to start posting them. I think they are some of my favorite photos to date. I also lost 711 photos from what I thought was an incredible day of shooting in Epcot and night at Magic Kingdom - thanks to a stupid human error on my part!! I also photographed fireworks from all new locations including The Odyssey walkway in Epcot, Storybook Circus, Mad Tea Party and the Liberty Square Bridge in the Magic Kingdom.
Another fun moment was getting to meet some of the Streetmosphere actors who have seen the photos I have taken of them. It was great and definitely a highlight of the week. Funny thing is that I had planned on meeting one in particular based on emails over the last month but never got a chance to - there is always next time though! :)
Now I just need to catch up on my work so I can start processing these shots and getting them posted. I am looking forward to it though and think there is plenty to keep me busy until I make it down again in the fall.
Have a great day!
Photo of Mount Sefrit, elevation 7,191 feet above sea-level, captured near the Mount Baker White Salmon Lodge and alongside State Route 542, the Mount Baker Highway, via Minolta MD Tele Rokkor-X 135mm F/2.8 Lens. Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest. North Cascades Region of the Cascades Range. Whatcom County, Washington. Late October 2016.
Exposure Time: 0.5 sec. * ISO Speed: ISO-100 * Aperture: F/22 * Bracketing: None
What happens when things don't work out the way you expect them to?
When, after all the might and struggle, you still end up flat-busted broke?
You wake up each day, walk through those gates to your job, and put in your time.
Bust some knuckles, and your back, along the way.
And still you can't break even.
More lint in your pockets, cobwebs in your wallet.
Paycheck to paycheck doesn't even cut it.
The kitchen table becomes the judge and jury every night.
Canned crap for the kids.
Again.
Your wife doesn't even look at you much anymore.
You didn't expect this.
THIS wasn't the dream you had.
Then something, an opportunity, presents itself.
Something to make the road a little smoother...
If...if you take a chance.
Sure it could swing the other way.
But if it doesn't...
The street gets a little more easy.
Do you take the chance?
Is a dream a lie if it don't come true?
Ā© Mark V. Krajnak | JerseyStyle Photography | All Rights Reserved 2016
October 2009 Archives
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:::: An Unexpected snowfall came in during the night! Abitibi, QuĆ©bec, Canada. Copyright Ā© 2010 GaĆ«tan Bourque. All rights reserved. Use without permission is illegal.
This series, which I expect to continue for a while, is taken at Jordan Lake. It is a man made "Recreational" area that was created in the late 60's or early 70's. Although it is located just about 20 miles from my home in North Carolina, I have never explored it in the 6 years I have lived here. In fact, I have avoided it like the plague because, from early spring until late fall it is packed with people like so ; www.ncparks.gov/Visit/parks/jord/main.php Not my kind of place at all!
But, recently I visited it on a cold and cloudy winter day and it was deserted; another place entirely.. I saw some possibilities for photographs. It's a rather large lake with lots of places to explore so I will...until the crowds return.
Tender is 98% complete. Main body of loco is still in the works. The front is, well... As expected lol
THE DISCOVERY by gleitzeit blog (the lost Interview in Rome)
I am using magnifying glass to be able to read a a PDF file of a very low quality.
My eyes are hurting. What I have found is something that is just not availableā¦
I must say on the search for anything tagged āinvisibleā I find some pretty amazing
stuff I would never know about (later on that)
Paul meet me at the gate. He looked younger than I had expected. Dressed
casually.
As a host he cordially offered me to dine. While we entered the hall I had an urge to ask him, is this a museum? trying not to break anything as we passed by sculptures, paintings,
ceramics and a lot of other pieces of art which I had never seen before.
This unexpected excitement spoiled my appetite, and I was no longer hungry and
instead drank some wine.
He made clear that it is not any kind of a museum, but instead, his Paulās studio. He lives not in Rome, but by the Terranian sea, where he was going shortly.
I asked Paul how he earns a living. Paul thought a little and tried to find an appropriate explanation. He finally lit on: "I am of independent means and donāt have to earn a living" pouring me another glass of wine.
I asked him: ā Can I buy some of your paintings? How much it will cost me?ā
This question Paul left unanswered but he said that commonly he paints his
pictures without the intention to sell them.
Earlier I noticed a little girl and a young woman moving about him.
OMG!!!! I am shaken up. NOBODY KNOWS ANYTHING ABOUT Paul Jaisiniās personal life! I donāt believe this. THANK YOU GOOGLE! this is like really mystifying. I am not an emotional person, rather someone who loves to work hard and get the job done. This turned into something other than working.
Google nowadays is not your āgrandfatherāsā google so to speak. It is tailored
around you, your daily Internet activity, So finding any news, any special
information is no longer an easy task. I guess because thereās too much of
everything and what one is looking for could be placed out of reach. So we sort
of live on a planet that is flat as in dark ages. I say that because if one is
provided the info that is tailored with limitation it implies that breaking
away is not something one would even comprehend! We are too used to trust our social functioning and think that we know everything, on top of all news provided to us by the honest practice of the broadcasting companies.
We donāt want to be those conspiracy freaks with no trust to anything or
anyone. But truth is, if you donāt want to pay high dollar for some expert
articles on the topics that could give more than the free info, you are really
up against a brick wall of the new unknown reality and a total incapacity to acquire
the needed info of high quality without spending your whole life learning all the crap on the net and beyond in order to find finally what you need.
So search is a tricky mother. If you are creative and sort of spontaneous you
might somehow find your own style of fishing out the essentials. But in my case I
often felt helpless and lost no longer willing to participate in this
undertaking trying to document Gleitzeit.
It doesnāt look like I had managed a short explanation. But this is my formula of
finding something that is not available on the tailored to fit google search.
I enter the variations of phrases and words from the gleitzeit context of emails, postings, essays and add some other words I find on my way of locating Paul Jaisini's links. Turning the tag in a sort of a potion number nine that had proven to fetch some impossible to find info on such a quick inquiry without opening thousands of websites where I might find or might not find anything at all. And the most effective findings are with the tag "invisible" added to other things, be it email abbreviations and so on.
āThe other must be his wifeā, I thought, because Paul called her with some pet name's asking for a bottle of wine, for a book, or an ash tray.
āIs she your wife? ā I asked just in case.
Paul looked me in the eyes and said: āShe is not my wife, nor the mother of my daughter, she is my secretary. ā
The secretary I sensed didnāt like me much.
She didnāt call Jaisini by his name, Paul, but she instead addressed him as
mister Jaisini. She seemed obsequious and perhaps didnāt like me for my unrestrained manner and direct questions. She said to Paul: āYou should not waste your time on this interview. You need to return to your work. ā
Paul said: āIt will be few minutes." and spent a few hours with me. A self-ruling man.
Paul didnāt drink any wine but he behaved at times extravagantly, showing the
outlines of the silhouettes in his paintings and explaining what was happening in the pictures.
Paul said that the point of his art being hidden from the public is an
intrigue that engages press in constant attempts to uncover the ātruthā behind it all. Nevertheless it is very disappointing, that people donāt care about real art, as they do about private affairs.
We went upstairs and in a spacious hall I saw a large painting. I didnāt hide my
awe.
āWow! Where did you get such a big piece of canvas? The art stores donāt sell
this linen in such sizes. ā
āIt is stitched together from pieces," answered Paul.
āHow did you reach the upper parts of the painting"
"I climbed the riser. Do you see the nude black man up there, tangled with a
serpent?"
"It reminds me of Laocoƶn. Is it intentional?"
"No, he is a symbol of physical grace without intellect. Do you see a group of
female bodies intertwined in a threesome?"
"No, I donāt see it. Where is the threesome?"
"To the left, look there."
"I look there."
"There the three figures, here is one, here is another one and the third one."
"Third is not a female figure, itās some animal."
"Itās a female, but there is an animal, a bit higher up. The clown in the center
tears his mouth in a bloody smile, carrying out his role of a fool, laughing when
he wants to cry."
"Is that a monkey?"
"You got it, she is another symbol of the fate, she stopped hitting the tom-tom,
her direct purpose in circus. When she stopped to play and started to think, she
realized that her life is pitiful and she wants to kill herself. Itās a second
symbol of the same meaning."
"Tell me about that threesome again."
"Well, they show the natural grace, as three graces would, the sensual concept of
procreation."
"This picture must be a depiction of a circus performance, I suppose. Is it ?
Why it is so dynamic?"
"It is a circus performance but is the personal trial of human character. The ball construction is an object: - Paulsenās ball, it is also a title of the painting."
"This ball creates some weight and it seems to move the composition with itās
size and position and it seems to be on a verge of rolling down."
"Youāre right! I also sense this immediate impulse to prevent the clown to fall
off that ball.
We went to other paintings, whole series of paintings.
When I gathered all my sensations about the art that surrounded me, it was time to leave. Paul Jaisini escorted me to the door. I shook his hand saying:
"You are an interesting man!"
"I am not a man..."
(the last sentence was a good ending)
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symbolism
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symbolism_(arts)
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Invisibility
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fatalism
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gracefulness
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Impossible_object
Have to type as I read PDF file that canāt be copied
Have to type as I read PDF file that canāt be copied
I am using magnifying glass to be able to read a a PDF file of very low quality. My eyes are hurting. What I have found is something that is just not availableā¦ I must say on the search for anything tagged āinvisibleā I find some pretty amazing stuff I would never know about (later on that) Now I am sitting in my office instead of having night out. It really is an impossible task to just discern the text. I filled up a spray bottle with cold water to spray my face to frequently refresh my eyes, as they get tired from the magnifying glass. Itās totally worth it, the thrill of discovery is my ultimate high.
Subj: Re: any suggestions?
Date: 2/5/00 Pacific Standard Time
From: bcwoodward@bigfoot.com (B. Woodward)
To: Yustas61@aol.com
CC: Angela Ahermeign
The attached file with original text before translation can be used in all related your project on Paul Jaisini.
All my corrections are in () and sometimes they replace the words nearby, other times they get inserted or have comments as well. It should be clear. Angela, you had some trouble with colloquialisms, unclear constructions and misplaced verb tenses. You switched among various forms of the past with irregularity. Iāve brushed it up. It makes a good narrative, though. Very interesting :)
Original Message-
From Angela A, Sent Thursday, February 03, 2000, 4: 25 PM
to bcwoodward@bigfoot.com
Subject Any suggestions
My first meeting with Paul Jaisini in Rome
(was it your first meeting with him, or just first time in Romeā¦ unclear construction)
Paul Jaisiniās appearance at the exhibition of his art made a lot of noise in 1995 in Rome.
(caused a lot of noise, a lot of excitement, or was it just a noisy appearance?)
After newspapers published the (a) photograph of Paul Jaisini in the empty gallery, I read the article and realized how lucky I was to be in Rome. Nobody saw Paul Jaisiniās paintings. Yes, nobodyā¦ This what happened next. I called him once, then (a) second time. (,b)But Paul didnāt return my calls. Unfortunately I was not able to stay on guards (stand guard is the appropriate colloquialism) to catch him by the art gallery being (as I was) preoccupied with my (own) business. So I decided that I have (needed, not have) to find a way to see Paul Jaisiniās (hidden) paintings if he hides them. Such extravagance has (had) to be stopped.
I decided to offer him (no him here) to write a testament about (to) the existence of his art (, which would necessarily lead to him revealing it to me.) which will rise the necessity to see it.
I heard about Paul Jaisini before (that time) because he is quite a (reverse the a and quite) well-known contemporary artist. When I set up the appointment to meet (him) I easily found his cozy two- story town-house surrounded by (an) antique iron fence.
When I called (on) the intercom it took a while to explain who I was and why (I had come) did I come.
Paul meet me at the gate. He looked younger than I (had) expected. Dressed casually.
As a host he cordially offered me to dine. While we were entering (entered) the hall I had an urge to ask him, (āI) is it (this) a museum (?), trying to brake (break) anything, (no commaā¦ as we passed) passing by sculptures, paintings, ceramic pieces (ceramicsā¦ drop the p word) and a lot of (other pieces of) art which I (had never seen before. drop rest of the sentence) was not ableā¦
Gosh, I can feel how B. Woodward was feelingā¦ WILL SHE REALLY SEE THE PAINTINGS by PAUL JAISINI?????? my eyes are punishing me for this thrill. I need to stop looking into the magnifier when I am now writing a comment without looking into unreadable copy.
Just waiting to get the courage to continueā¦ my eyes need rest, I made myself some coffee with soy milk. But it surely means I want to prolong the suspense. I have no idea what is written in that text I located only god knows where or how.
I think that a gamer guru would understand me after he/she played hardest strategic games for a very long time and turned into a savvy thrill seeker.
medium.com/art-submissions/don-t-bother-901454f687cd The time has come to start making sense of things, of the world, of each other. We think weāre doing that, but weāre actually doing the opposite. We are complicatingā¦EVERYTHINGā¦tothe point of utter madness. Our world has become one ginormous madhouse, ESPECIALLY cyberspace ā this alternate world we created within our world that seems to have created a world within itself ā yet to be identified, recognized, and named. Making sense of things is not a bad thing. For example, letās start with one major web enigma: Paul Jaisini and āGleitzeitā which is this, uh, odd art movement the guy started in the 90s. If you simply google either of those names, I gaurantee you a good WTF moment or two. Youāll not just be scratching your head over this one. Youāll be scratching every part of your body like a delusional nutcase who thinks your skin is literally crawling with countless bugs. ITāS GONNA BUG THE HELL OUT OF YOU, letās just sayā¦maybe for a day or a weekā¦or maybe, as for some folks, long after youāve discovered it. Youāll be itching to understand what itās about even just a little bit. Your mind will try to make sense of Paul Jaisini and/or Gleitzeit, it will want to, but will fail miserably. Frustration and anger will start setting in. I know because thatās how it was for me and every person that tried. The deeper you dig, the more you try to figure it out, the more confused, overwhelmed, baffled, and perplexed youāll get. I guess for the people that attempt to understand the Paul Jaisini and Gleitzeit thing or debunk it, my advice is: DONāT EVEN TRY. DONāT GO THERE. ITāS NOT FOR YOU. The sleepless nights, the uncertainty, the questions and ideas that start invading your head, the horror of āwaking upā from normality and regularity, the trauma of moving from one dimension to anotherā¦ is not worth it. Well, for me it was worth it, but not for others. They claim itās crazy and even dangerous for the mind, Paul Jaisiniās Gleitzeit. Well, sure, I mean you gotta break some eggs to make an omelette, dontchya? So, Gleitzeit is the omelette and all parties involved in GIG (Gleitzeit International Group) are the eggs. Makes sense. Speaking of which, ātheyā donāt want it to make sense, not even close. As a member of the group, Iām breaking protocol BIG TIME by writing this, by encouraging that you go out there, look this stuff up and figure it out, take away its shield of senselessness and defeat itā¦ for the sake of a better world and future for us all. I hope someone out there hears meā¦.one way or another, it had to be saidā¦. Stelly Riesling
This photo was an accident, but I thought it was still too pretty to delete : ) I was taking photos of this gorgeous Common Grackle, when it disappeared from sight and then suddenly popped up much closer than I was expecting. I cropped the sides of the photo to make it square, but other than that, this is how the photo was taken : ) Though these birds seem to be unpopular, I love to see them and try and capture their iridescent beauty. They appear to be a black bird, but when the sun catches them, they come alive with colour.
"Common Grackles are blackbirds that look like they've been slightly stretched. They're taller and longer tailed than a typical blackbird, with a longer, more tapered bill and glossy-iridescent bodies. Grackles walk around lawns and fields on their long legs or gather in noisy groups high in trees, typically evergreens. They eat many crops (notably corn) and nearly anything else as well, including garbage. In flight their long tails trail behind them, sometimes folded down the middle into a shallow V shape." From AllABoutBirds.
www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Common_Grackle/id
animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/birding/common-gra...
Two days ago, on 4 June 2015, it was a dry day, though a thunderstorm was forecast. After grey skies and rain the previous couple of days, I felt like going for a drive. Started at a wetland in SW Calgary, where I saw the usual Lesser Scaup and Redheads. The male Redhead did not like any of the other ducks around him and would chase away each one in turn. Quite the bully! Also managed to get a few more shots of a Common Grackle, including this one, though they move fast and seemingly constantly.
From there, I drove some of my usual backroads SW of the city. The clouds were building up quite dramatically, and I stopped at one wetland where they were reflected quite beautifully. I didn't see all that many birds, but was content to get a few chances to photograph a pair of Mountain Bluebirds, Tree Swallows, an Eastern Kingbird, and a Savannah Sparrow. No Wilson's Snipe this time, though I thought I had one on a distant fence post. Turned out to be a Mourning Dove - only the second time I've ever seen one on a fence post. Also saw a Swainson's Hawk which flew and landed on a high power pole near where the Bluebirds and Tree Swallows were nesting. The Tree Swallows, in true fashion, were causing the Bluebirds enough stress by flying and landing just a foot or two away from the Bluebirds' nesting box. The male Bluebird did such a great job of chasing away its rather beautiful, iridescent neighbours - which I also enjoy photographing. So, a short trip, but one that I always enjoy, especially each spring.
The Conversion.
Ruin: so, tell me about the day you got the 'news'. Did you go there alone? I went with Adrian, but we got the news separately.
Rack: I will, but zero energy today and this will require some gusto. I was alone, half expecting it. Iāve never fully described it to myself or anyone else. Going to think on it. If it goes in our book, it will have to be largely fictionalized as I remember very little. Not surprisingly. Send me yours and Iāll send you mine. xo
Ruin: Mine is similar, remember very little, though I did write around it, both to you and to one or two others. I was working in the Civil Service at the time. I had just finished my Doctorate. I will re-build it around those messages, will find it out, write about not remembering it, even. I can't even remember if I was sitting opposite a male or female doctor. I do remember the shock though, and coming out to discover that Adrian was in with another doctor. I had gone in first, so I had to wait for him. My head was racing, but then, when is it not?
Amanda Knox writes quite well, relative to that link you sent me, about her āRed Letter Dayā.
Thereās a similar feeling in it, that prison sentence, the air being drawn out of the room.
Yes, I will write it, we can also find it in our exchange, and yes, it can include fiction, of course. But then what is fiction? Perhaps itās the story we tell ourselves convincing ourselves that itās true, those self-justifications we invent to make moving forward possible, that greasing of those wheels.
I also have the writing about when we first got our t-cell count back, and mine being higher than his, and there being some guilt. It's near the end of those emails I sent you, but I will contrive to pull it all together.
Rack: God yes, the T-cell counts. Mine were not terrible. Peter tested after me and his were terrible. Thatās how he found out. I feel like I might have to resort to science fiction, a genre Iām not fond of. Not that I know anything about it. Anyway, will stop writing about writing about it and will write it.
Ruin:
Sent : Sun Apr 22, 2001, 9:17 am.
Cries and Whimpers. (On discovering new HIV status Sent : Sun Apr 22, 2001, 9:17 am.
āI feel like I have dropped out of the world. You know the feeling, that in it but not of it, sort of thing. This acknowledgement of a new but inevitable state of being waxes and wanes, sometimes seeming unbearable and sometimes seeming very ordinary. That we both want or need to deal with it in totally different ways causes problems intermittently as we knock off each other (relative to Adrian). Meanwhile the world seems even more inaccessible than ever, the art world in particular. As usual I cringe at youth and beauty, but now in a more bitter and twisted way. When I see what is acceptable and celebrated in the Art world it becomes immediately clear why I would not be. Who needs the ravings of an aberrational cock and cum obsessed dysfunctional unit? The world is about going forth and multiplying, about buying and selling. Itās all about possessions and looking good. Having got to the ripe old age of 47, I haven't even managed to develop the acquisitional gene and imagine that will be a lack until the final shuffling off of this tired old coil.ā
That's the day I found out, after a little search, but I will make it into a story. But no, on re-reading, I see it isnāt the day I found out, itās 12 days later. I have no idea what happened in those intervening days.
I sort of discovered that in the act of writing, you start to remember even, to recapture memories. It's an interesting process.
Rack: Yes, I hope that happens. I am thinking I might make the perspective that of the doctorās, to some degree, not entirely. I do remember him. Better than I remember myself that day. Telling.
Ruin: I remember reactions over that time, telling people, and getting that "well you were bloody looking for it" reaction.
I think before that day I thought that I might have been immune.
There was a rumour that some people were, and I had been such a slattern to that point, and always stayed negative, so I sort of allowed myself delude myself.
But I think that I might have wanted it too.
Rack: I mostly knew. I had fevers, swollen lymph nodes and one night a pain in the left side of my neck like a piece of rebar had been jammed up from my clavicle.
Yes, regarding wanting it, me too. It was connected to my loss of Conor. Complicated. It was a way for me to have an identity.
Ruin: But it was so much not your demographic, that must have been bewildering somewhat.
I think I was a semi-conscious bug-chaser, but also blindingly honest. As soon as I converted I told everyone.
Rack: Oh, it did. It was my calling card. The 25-year-old Irish woman with AIDS (no distinctions were made back then really).
Ruin: It was how I sorted out that wheat from the chaff, frighten the fuckers away.
Rack: It was a fantastic litmus test. Thatās certain.
Ruin: I told you before, that demographically in London, the Irish and those from the Caribbean have the greatest percentage of HIV positive amongst their cohorts. They both have a disproportionate number for the size of their populations. It's the old āCuckooā, āWild Gooseā thing. There was a survey done, and it was reported. I wish I had kept it.
Rack: Not surprising. The disenfranchised. Same could be said of Covid deaths.
Ruin: Lost, wandering, souls, untethered.
Rack: Yup. Less to lose.
Ruin: It's interesting now here to be in that demographic again relative to Covid, the disposables, the old.
Rack: But there was also the sense that it could get anyone. Liberace. Rock Hudson. Magic Johnson.
Ruin: Straight from one to the other, straight from seeing our parents out to preparing to see ourselves out. But that is universally the way of the world too.
Rack: Iād like to see myself in first.
Ruin: Yes, absolutely, but the untethered are more vulnerable, more likely to head for it, almost daringly.
Rack: Iām beginning to understand the reason for my writerly reticence. It aināt pretty.
Ruin: Great, meaning āyesā to the seeing of yourself in, but also describe it, it works at perhaps even bringing that about, of disenfranchising it.
Rack: I will. Not now though. I need to clarify it to myself. Itās terrifying.
Ruin: That self-loathing, it's great, and liberating, when you at last begin to call it out.
I am listening to Sapolsky again today about childhood abuse and PTSD. Take your time.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=XcBgsmJFHDY&t=3s
Baboons in the wild, that's us, his subject, extrapolated to us.
Rack: Waving our purple arses. xoxooxoxox
Ruin: Kiss it, bitch!!!! XXX
It's bedtime here. I have been thinking about this, I will write it tomorrow, or start, it will include this, grow out of this. This will be the immediate aspect. The rest will happen, from notes made around the time and retrieved memories. It might take the rest of the week to pull it out, but I will.
When I think of it, it must have been a female doctor. At the same time, it might not have even been a doctor, perhaps a social worker, or a nurse, or one of the gay men manning the āTavistock Clinicā. It was all nicely normalised for us sexual renegades, so that we could talk about anything, just as if we too were actually ānormalā. My memory of the clinic in Dublin was not like that. There, we were well and truly outsiders, beyond that pale, next to the shackled prisoners from the local jail (I kid you not). This was indicative of the shame we might have dragged with us unknowingly, that friendly self-targeting fire. There is an aspect of that there in Nuala Oā Faolainās autobiography, around abortion and birth control, and lesbianism. In fact, itās more or less there in the writings of all our compatriots from Joyce wandering off to forge the conscience of his race, to the Magdalene Laundry atrocities in Claire Keegan. It is our wandering lot. I guess itās that I seethe against in everything I make or do. That stranglehold of religion, for generations, casting sex as shameful. But thereās no real blame there either, or if there is, it is directable somewhere else. It perhaps could be laid squarely at the feet of the colonisation, and devastatingly cruel treatment, of our forebears, driving them into the maws of religion, that all-devouring solace.
I am not surprised we went crazy, you and me. I guess itās also why I hold onto the discussion around Joyce relative to syphilis. There is much Irish objection to the theory amongst literature scholars, that ānot our Saint Jamesā sort of thing, not now that we have taken him back into our collective, all enveloping, chaste bosoms. But we know he is one of us, shameless, you just have to read his letters, and look at the treatments he was receiving (That mercury and Neo-Salvarsan). We are shameless, and this is good. This needs both embracing and celebrating, wantonly, lusciously, and hilariously.
So back to the āTavistock Clinicā, nestled there just off the Tottenham Court Road, succour for sinners, offered now by our nationās tormentors. Going there to confess repeated improprieties, which inevitably did, at last, trip one up, was always a bit of a laugh, until it wasnāt.
The thing I think I remember most is hard to describe. It wasnāt a sharp intake of breath, not exactly that. It was more like a rush of cold air into the lungs, like it feels just before a panic attack. But this was years before those panic attacks, but I still remember that ācold airā second. It was like, suddenly from nowhere, air from a deep freeze had entered your lungs. Just the once, it wasnāt ongoing, but it took quite a few more breaths to warm it back up. The heart felt it, and responded, speeding up. Again, Sapolsky describes this wonderfully, that flight or fight response to danger, that speeding up when there was nowhere to run to. He links it to abuse and neglect in childhood. Like a baboon sitting directly opposite a man-eating tiger. The thing is that we are so used to running away from our own personal ābĆŖte noireā, mine being my mother selling me for sex to her brother when I was a child. That she did this āinnocentlyā is no succour, no release at all. Running had to happen. Running until you dropped, and you, apparently, had just dropped in front of this ferocious caregiver. Luckily the tiger opposite you was just there to make a follow up appointment to have your bloodwork done, to see the extent of the damage already coalesced. I didnāt realise at the time that there would be still a lot of time to conjure a seemingly infinite amount of even more damage. I was always very good at generating self-damage, a past master, even. But then this was inherited, something passed on from abused parents to their litter (or their farrow, as Mr. Joyce termed it). I still love this stuff we carry forward, until we work out that reproduction is probably not a good idea at all; so we stop.
We were very clever in that regard, or at least our DNA was.
Rack, I think that this is how it is done, or a lot of it anyway. This immediacy of these SMS messages between us, this explaining it to each other. You pointed out that this was your favourite part of the 50 pages I sent you, that 'nowness'. Yes, I agree with you there, it is the 'bones', like an extended diary really, a day by day thing, grabbing what ever understanding happens as you wake up. That's when itās best for me anyway. It also means you don't actually have to sit down and write, in that traditional way of putting hours aside for the 'muse'. Anyway, you both muse and amuse me, enough to make me respond.
I am searching in the stuff I have here from around that time. There is not a lot, I think I sort of temporarily shut down. There are some breadcrumbs scattered. The next part seems to be about results, t-cell counts and the like. I can certainly fill in the gaps somewhat. I remember distinctly telling a few people, and their inappropriate reactions, which made me angry. Some fed me some 'choices' shit, as in "you made bad choices" sort of way. I knew that I had been true. I also knew already that there was no such thing as āfreedom of choiceā, no such chimera as āfree Willā. Those ghosts were the terrors of childhood, they were over, as dead as āGodā.
I thought their reactions were shaming, and I was having none of that.
Anyway there is solace. I love the tenderness between us as we work this out.
Ruin: Anyway, dear Rack, here's a start. Good morning!
I was surprised to hear that you knew before Peter, and then he went and got tested. I always presumed that it was the other way around. I remember those people in New York, those gay men that didn't want to know. I had myself tested more or less every three months, more so after I had resumed barebacking. That happened quite late for me, it was really after I had left New York, that point where I had become so tired of all that self-preservation of someone I loathed, myself. You see, I had come from a long line of barebackers. My parents were, it was mandated by their religion (as you know condoms were not available), and my grandfather and grandmother, with their 17 children, were definitely barebackers too, and so on through countless generations. What can I say? It was ingrained in my DNA.
In fact, almost every heterosexual I ever met was a barebacker. They were forever falling pregnant, or going on the pill, or looking to get an abortion, or whatever. It was from that bastion of privilege that most of the shaming was coming from, as it would happen, and this always managed to irritate the bejaysus out of me. This might have been at the root of the art I was beginning to make, that adoption of those indicators of their divinity, that gold and silver they chose to honour their beatified, that idealised self they had inherited. Fuck them all Rack, I would give that to us.
Rack: Great stuff Billy. I love the idea of barebacking, for whatever reason being hereditary. Brilliant. And yes, the immediacy and the āIām not really writingā are the genius of the back and forth.
It seems I need this. Or an assignment like this. Working on mine. Iāve got to the office, but no further.
ONWARD
08:20, 15/03/2023
Ruin: Yes, I do and donāt see it as writing. Itās really just a correspondence between friends, and we both write as we write. That, of course, comes with a sense of immediacy, that not writing really towards an end, the picking apart (that knot) being the ongoing driver. This is what we have been doing for years, though I did start by saying that I wanted to keep a record of us dealing with what was happening, and that I had this āLaclosā fantasy. Yes, it has developed, but it is also still the same. I never set out to be a writer, you know that; I am, and was, an image maker, it was and is how I explain the world to myself. I still donāt want to be what is called a writer, that career involving whatever it involves. Itās still writing until I feel this is sorted out, whether that be completed in those fabled 4 years I say I hope for, or whether it goes on until Max Van Sydow arrives with his scythe. The writing is primarily the unravelling of what I have wrought, that Gordian knot thingy, my very own one, in tandem, and parallel with your picking apart of your very own variant of the same. I sense similarities there in both our fumblings. Though it isnāt all fumbling, sometimes we seem to have breakthroughs, seem even to be getting somewhere. This might be delusional on my part. I often look back as things I make, places where I thought I was being ātrueā, some of those āeurekaā moments and wonder what I thought I was up to.
Maybe my trying to fashion it into a type of ābookā is too much pressure, maybe it is even dishonest, though I see there is āworthā there. I think we can communicate something valuable about the human condition, or at least our own āpervertedā version of the same (which is equal to all other versions) especially relative to sex, shame, and abuse. The struggle with whatever, in the moment it was happening, is what the messages back and forth between each other manifests. It wasnāt some narrative contrivance we manufactured to create something called a story or plot. It was the āthere and thenā of the continuous ānowā. We are lucky to have that record, and I donāt really care if it is āliteratureā or even āgood writingā. I have no problem with correcting it where necessary, grammar or spelling-wise, but thatās only to make it clearer for myself initially. After myself, I want to make it clearer for you. I have no idea what follows after that, or if anything needs to.
I am saying this to take the pressure off of you, the head of steam you seem to build up, fit to burst. I see it can cause a type of panic for you. I am talking about your fear of writing. Donāt write then, just respond if you want to. Thatās enough. It builds of its own volition.
Strangely, I could hardly read the OāFaolain book. I got to about 150 pages in and had to stop. I kept waiting for it to start, and kept getting irritated when it didnāt, and had to stop. Anyway, I am not going to attack it, the writing I mean, I am hardly an expert, but it didnāt win me over at all. I donāt know why, maybe it was that generational thing, that Dublin one just before me, before I found myself on Kildare Street, with your mother, and had somewhat of a sampling of what Dublin had to offer (for the first time), before deciding that I had to escape from that too. Then there was that usual doo-doo. That āyou had books growing up, you were luckyā, all that crazy comparative abuse stuff, that āmine was worse than yoursā stuff. Then she went to Oxford. I would have killed all Jude the obscureās children to have been aware then that Oxford even existed as a possibility. Itās all very much about what you were born into, and the sort of privilege that is taken for granted, even if her father was a complete negligent asshole.
So, there you have it, another good book ruined through seething jealousy.
Well, at least I now know it, and knowledge being power, and all that palaver, letās see where that takes us. Anyway, jealousy often comes up around memoirs I read, primarily that Monty Pythonesque āYou were lucky, you had booksā. I must have always really wanted them, those āunobtainablesā. This suggests that I might have wanted to write. I remember loving writing in school, and always getting top marks for the same. I think it had something to do with not being able to speak, that damned stutter, so that the writing was the only way I could manage to say what I was thinking. The progenitors worked according to the rule that āchildren should be seen and not heardā, a relentlessly repeated maxim. So, most of the time was spent making cheap jigsaws. I got one every Christmas, each one more complicated than the last in the hopes of keeping the stammering child quiet. But there was drawing too. I preferred that.
Then I pulled Rack, sorry Kim, through that scratchy hedge hole, your doggy alter-ego, and the world changed. That all sounds a bit like what happened in the Moondance Diner, on that day we first met and simultaneously told me that you had just found out you were HIV-positive.
Ruin: Next step for me is first bloodwork, as you know my veins and arteries are sewers so that should make for fun reading. Can you remember your first? Each seems like a tentative step at the beginnings of a journey. First sex after conversion, first time stoned, pissed, first bloodwork, first confession of new status, first time you snapped at someone who complained about something trivial when you were carrying life and death, and mostly the latter, on your shoulders, first film you managed to sit through. There have been no first tears yet. You know all of this......wanna be my Beatrice?
Edge-dwelling, one of our favourite subjects.
It does seem strange not to have your madness here at the moment. It probably wouldn't help but it might. I may need to visit NYC at some stage for a fix and a change of perspective and just to prove that I can and that all is not over. This is a stupid infuriating stage, and it can be over as soon as it wants. Sorry if I remind you of a past self. Going to the Irish Club in Eaton Square for lunch for some posh comfort food. The sort of food which was eaten on the Hill of Howth but never made it to Clondalkin. With Wine (for some reason my spellcheck wants to change this to Whine).
Rack: You know what is really odd. I get bad news and my whole being reacts as if it's good news. This is a strange thing. I get all fired up, determined, focused, confident, strong and ballsy. It's the perversion of our predicament. Of course, the bloodwork sucked the big hairy moosedick. This I think I knew without having to charge my health insurance company 2,000 dollars. I'll deal with it, as I always do. I'll go back in. I'll play more drug-chess, I'll grow to love compromise as much as a miracle and I'll be around for a little longer.
This is not easy.
I think I am going back on the interferon. This is hard for me, but it's a gamble. Maybe I can keep my liver in working order for another two years and by then the drugs in the pipeline now will be available to me. It's always been thus, and I have to say that I have
had great fortune in being on the right side of time.
Ruin, Ruin, Ruin. You know I'd say a prayer if I could. There must be real comfort in that stuff. However, we persist...
I'm happy to have you as my dear friend.
Ruin: I should have written earlier to you to let you know of the results of our bloodwork. I was somewhat shocked and dismayed to discover that mine are actually much better than him indoors. Mine are 800 with a low viral load of 9,000. His are around 500 with a viral load of 60,000. I know these are all just figures and can change over a short period; I remember that film āSilverlake Lifeā. This comparison thing is odious and the main overpowering feeling I had was one of guilt at being overly endowed in the T-cell department, as opposed to the trouser department which is my usual problem! We are both being treated at the moment for an amoebic infection in the gut and hopefully this will up his numbers (and mine to superhuman levels), as he has been quite sick and squitty.
They are probably a leftover from my time in New York as I had bad stomach bug problems there (Giardia etc.) from my propensity for eating nether regions. When I went to have them checked here, I was told I had nervous stomach and sent home by my GP, and it is only now that I have the lurgy that the National Health bothers to check and finds the little buggers. At last, we will get comprehensive healthcare, but it had to get to this point (where they check out every little problem). Can you imagine how the rest of the clean population (henceforth to be known as the cleanies) gets treated? Cancer patients getting sent home with āImodiumā. It happens.
We are now, of course, utterly disposable. All the rules of survival of the fittest would support this. How do we turn this around? This has been your struggle for years. I don't mean it in a bad way but is it somewhat of a support to have me there with you in the same boat? It is a support for me that you are such an old hand and inspiration in your ability to move on with this. I am telling my friends but the present climate dictates that they absorb the news, express concern and then disappear (my NY friends excluded), almost like an āOh well, too bad, now get over itā sort of shrug. So that is what I am doing. I am not averse to milking it, but the udder of human kindness seems to have deserted the pap. Anyway, I am more likely to laugh than cry and my inclination is to shout 'fuck you and your sympathy.' At the same time, I don't want to hide it. I don't want to become some HIV activist, but I do want to talk about being mortal. I still want TOO MUCH, but now I want it immediately. NOTE TO SELF: Self, you must get some credit cards or at least a credit rating.
So, I am sure you will be glad to see that my unhealthy Ego is still very much intact and beginning to re-emerge from the wettest winter on record. I am torn as to how to approach bodies for art funding. Should I do the āI am profoundly mortal and in touch with the moment of extinctionā spiel, hoping they will think, āoops better fund him because he won't be around for much longerā or avoid all that in case they think, āoops another AIDS artist who has nothing to say to us cleanies?ā It's all in the work anyway......but which is the best way to exploit the situation, given that Brit Art is dominated by Laddism and that even the girls are beer drinking heterosexual womanisers (who can spit great distances).
Brit art has had no response to this Fin De Siecle malaise, there is no Gober, or Gonzales Torres or Wojnarowicz, or even a Goldin......I don't think they should get away with this. Similarly, Brits don't know how to respond when you tell them of your lurgyness, as they know no one else with this condition, or at least act as if they donāt. I miss my mates in New York, who have absorbed the whole shebang and know how to respond. Let's hear it for the āHealing Circleā and āAct-Upā meetings.
They were good, if slightly hysterical, times. I hate normalisation, it really does you in.
I am not what might be considered 'normal', I worship at the back passage and no amount of interior design flair will change that. I love being an aberration.
I still have the bitter and twisted fantasy I would like to write as a story. Set in the future it would involve a new virus that would kill you within a month. The idea would be that anyone who was already HIV positive would be immune to the virus. So, reverse everything. Those who were Poz would no longer be Pariahs. Cleanies would be begging for positive loads, it would be on sale on the net. The most efficient way to contact it would be anal sex (as if) so that every straight jock in Christendom would be begging for it and we would be very busy and multi-squillionaires in no time. So I am a sicko....but you always knew that.
Anyway now you have the latest earth-shattering facts and fantasies of my so-called life. Civil servitude continues and the days drag on. I have some feelers out for vague connections to generate art and space and support. We now have a power shower and the new cooker and washing machine and tumble dryer are paid for and awaiting delivery. We will never go short of a clean diaper when the time comes. Debts mount for same.
Attached please find pic for cover of aforementioned book,
Infected kisses,
Billzebum
Rack: Will reply. I donāt see the cover attachment. Xo
Ruin: Nope, that's an old email, that last part. It was just as far as I got this morning.
This is exactly what I am talking about, this immediacy, this interweaving. It is an exchange between two people, in that moment of that exchange, that perpetual now. Perpetual, another catholic word, that idea of perpetual succour, and that giving and receiving of same to each other.
I sent you more, as email, which I think is a better place to communicate. Except there is also that added immediacy of this organ (WhatsApp) here....that complete 'in the moment'. Let's not lose this either.
"I suspect you saw that 'cleanies' reference I put up. I know it seems offensive. It came from a time when I would go out to bars, or wherever, and someone would try to pick me up. We would chat away, the usual inanities, until the person flirting with me would ask was I clean. I would play along and say I washed regularly, or whatever, but they would insist. So, I would get them to ask me if I was positive or not. I was asked was I clean so many times. They would get angry too, when I said I was positive, as in why I had wasted their time. I was told a few times that I shouldn't be in a bar, because I was spoiling it for 'clean' people."
I am looking at stigma and shame, though the email I sent you is not about that. It's a continuation on the last one.
Rack: I had this boyfriend who said to me after I tested positive (as I was soliciting him for sex), āI didnāt think you could have sex now.ā As if my vagina had grown a metal hymen. I think of him sometimes, now 35 years later, and wonder if he wonders what happened to me.
Ruin: I remember a friend in NYC used to cover his glass with his hand when he was drinking with me, just in case. I wasn't even positive then, but I was a wooftah. That was enough.
That was the same guy I went to work with in Palm Beach around 9/11. That story is, of course, here too.
It appears I have forsworn even trying to be a sympathetic character. It's just as well that I am fictional, or rather that we are.
I really love all the contrasting styles along the wall here in this particular shot! And if the floor didn't have those downright ugly dark spots in it, we could certainly pretend it was an upscale terrazzo floor - sweetening the deal even more :P
And yep, the BEEF and SEAFOOD lettering is indeed fixed to the wall, but shelving would have to have been built in both instances to make those letters stand out away from the wall, as they do in other Airport remodels. But that seems a bit outlandish (to me at least) to expect that to happen, especially when the shelving and letters themselves would have been more vulnerable to damage. And lastly, there certainly is some sort of clear plastic piece along the top of that lettering as well - perhaps that was a better option than gluing the letters directly to the wall in the event a letter or two needed replacing in the future - yeah, we'll go with that theory to make us all feel better! It's not that the plastic looks downright horrible - just slightly distracting...
I haven't yet posted a photo of the Airport-style Seafood section as seen in the West Memphis Walmart (at least I don't think I have :P), but it looks better here anyway!
____________
Walmart, 1998-built, Southcrest Pkwy near Goodman Rd., Southaven, MS
St Andrew, Honingham, Norfolk
Peter raises Dorcas from the dead (detail) by GW Taylor, 1877.
A new entry on the Norfolk Churches site which, after several years of neglect, is also coming back from the dead this year.
I had almost given up hope of seeing inside Honingham church, until my friend John told me he'd arranged for it to be open, and would I like to come along? In truth, I was wary about meeting a character I had encountered at the church some ten years previously; not so much for what had happened, but that I had written about it in some detail afterwards. I was a little apprehensive, therefore, to turn up and discover that the man opening the church was the same one I had met all those years before. But it didn't matter, because he didn't remember me, and probably had never read what I had written.
And I found I liked Honingham church rather more than I had expected to. There is a rich atmosphere of the last decade of the 19th Century and the first decade of the 20th, and the Victorian glass is really very good. It can't have much of a congregation, and I decided that it was essentially a churchwarden's hobby church, a fiefdom. He obviously did everything here, kept in in good order looking spick and span and shipshape, and locked it determinedly against anyone who wanted to see inside without attending a service. I imagined that even God would have to wipe his feet and mumble apologetically if he wanted to get inside. All well and good for now, but once the churchwarden has gone it will soon be lost to us.
In 2006, I had written: This big, locked, Perpendicular building, the nave and chancel rebuilt by the Victorians, is surrounded by a wide graveyard. On the north side there are sparsely scattered headstones, but to the south the church is set within a wide murderous curve of the A47. To describe this church as a landmark on the road is to assume that it would be safe to look up from the wheel to spot it; the stretch of the road between here and Hockering has claimed more deaths than any other since the A47 was taken outside the villages. I'm not suggesting that the church is responsible for this, of course, just that spotting it shouldn't be one of your priorities.
If a Martian came down and landed in the graveyard of St Andrew, Honingham, what on earth he would make of it? Would he think it was an art object? A barn, or storage facility? Or would he search for an industrial purpose? Perhaps the tall pinnacles on the tower might suggest to him that he was at the site of a scientific experiment. If the Martian had any brains, and I assume that he would have if he'd made it this far, he might perceive that the road is a lot newer than the church, and perhaps he would decide that the church was a relic of the past, its function now sidelined, perhaps forgotten altogether. Indeed, he might wonder if the road had been built deliberately to speed humans past this building and the tall stones set around it.
Perhaps this was a dangerous place. Or, maybe, it was simply an embarrassing reminder of past superstitions, a haunted site. An unlucky place, perhaps. The Martian might watch the traffic hurtling past, the drivers deliberately not looking, and think yes, that must be right. Whatever he decided, it would have to be based on a survey of the exterior, because St Andrew is always locked, unless the Sunday club is in session. He wouldn't even be able to look through the windows, because they are filled with frosted quarries.
Eventually, he might find the porch, and think it is some sort of antechamber (not an entrance, of course, for the doors beyond are locked) and for a moment ponder the holy water stoup, now filled with an old birds nest. What on earth would he make, I wonder, of the signboard on the wall that reads in part:
Friend, you have come to this church. Leave it not without a prayer.
No one entering a house ignores him who dwells in it.
This is the house of God, and He is here.
Pray, then, to him who loves you, and bids you welcome, and awaits your greeting.
A lovely sentiment, no doubt; but the Martian would still be left locked out of the house of God - if it is the house of God, of course, for if the locks and chains keep out the stranger and the pilgrim, how on earth can it be that God is in there to bid us welcome?
My friend Peter had been trying to see inside this church for years. We came this way most recently in early March, 2006. The day had started in bright sun, but as we headed here from Marlingford the east wind blew sheets of glacial cloud above us, which turned grey and, as we parked the car, turned to snow. Parking is difficult; there is a layby, but you need to approach from the west to park here. Otherwise, there is a drive which goes up to the east end of thechurch, but this was already occupied by a large BMW estate. We parked in the layby, and sat in the car for a moment, watching the fat flakes thicken.
What to do? We decided that we might just as well get out and go and take a look. Either, by some miracle, the church would be open and offer us shelter, or we could confirm our prejudices about the perpetual locking of St Andrew and be on our way.
The south side of the church has been cleared of headstones, and they have been placed in two perfectly straight lines, about 15 m apart. What would the Martian make of this? Some sort of sports arena, perhaps? Or a place to worship the sun at the solstice?
Our Martian couldn't possibly be expected to know about the great lawnmower enthusiasm of the 1960s and 1970s, when so many graveyards were cleared like this one. But the dead have their revenge, and this wide open space is now scattered with an acne of molehills.
We got into the porch and tried the inner door, which was locked of course; although it did feel as though one great shove with a shoulder would probably open it. And that was when the heavens opened. The snow was so thick in the air we could only just make out the suicidal cars thrashing up the main road to and from the Midlands. Peter is a careful driver, and he didn't much fancy heading on in a blizzard, and there didn't seem much point getting caked in snow just to go back and sit in the car, so we sheltered from the weather in the porch, and read the notices miserably.
I noticed that the presentation to the living had been suspended, which sounds drastic but simply means that the parish can't afford a Rector. The annual accounts were posted, and I noticed that the total income for the year was roughly the same as the weekly income of the church I attend in the middle of Ipswich, so this is a small parish. Eventually, I exhausted the possibilities of the noticeboard, and, feeling that I had probably squeezed the last ounce of pleasure out of the porch, I gazed out at the graveyard. This was when I noticed something rather curious. The back of the BMW estate was open, and beyond the second line of gravestones a smartly dressed man was standing in the snow bashing molehills with a spade.
At first I thought this must be an act of devotion on the part of a parishioner, or simply a Saturday morning habit. And then I wondered if it might be some kind of East Anglian country lore: if in the snow you clear his stack, mister mole will not be back. Perhaps this man had been waiting for it to snow for months.
We watched him for a while, the snow blanketing the sound of his spade into silence, rendering it surreal. But the wind was vicious, and so we stepped back into the porch, and worked out where we wanted to go next. It was while we were pondering over the map that we heard footsteps, and looking up saw that the smartly dressed man had approached us. He looked at us quizzically.
"Just here out of interest?" he asked.
"Well, we'd like to be", I replied, indicating the door. "But the church is locked."
This was such a heavy hint that, once dropped, it hit the floor with a loud clang. Surely, if this man had a key, he'd give it to us, or let us in. But he just smiled sadly and nodded in agreement, as if to say yes, the church was locked, and there was nothing he could do about it. Perhaps he'd been trying to see inside for years as well. Instead, the three of us exchanged a few polite comments about the weather, and he wandered off back to his moles.
And then ten years passed, and here I was again at Honingham church. No moles now, and so the churchwarden was at leisure to let us in through the chancel door. The first impression was of the jewel-like intensity of the chancel windows, several the work of George William Taylor soon after he had taken over the O'Connor workshop in Berner Street, London in 1877. Indeed, the windows are actually signed Taylor late O'Connor.
I always find Taylor's manga-eyed women a bit mawkish, but in these early days he was probably working with the O'Connor pattern book, and the combination of their cartoons and his romanticism is very pleasing, even if there is a bit of manga creeping in. But in the end, Taylor was unable to revive the O'Connor's fortunes. The mass-produced glass of the workshop was becoming unfashionable with the rise of the Arts & Crafts movement, and they weren't able to compete with the economies of scale of the really big workshops like Hardman & Co and Ward & Hughes. They produced their last glass in about 1900 and the company closed soon afterwards.
The main subjects here are all concerned with bringing the dead back to life: Peter raising Dorcas, Christ raising Jairus's daughter, and so on. Best of all is a triple window of Nativity, Crucifixion and Resurrection, probably produced by the O'Connors before George Taylor came along.
By contrast with the chancel, the nave is startlingly plain, perhaps a result of a considerable restoration in the early 20th Century. The memorials are all gathered at the east end and include one to Sir Eric Teichman. After a distinguished career in the diplomatic service, mainly in China, Teichman devoted his life to raising funds for Dr Barnardos Homes. He lived at Honingham Hall, and in the winter of 1944 he was shot dead in the grounds by two American servicemen who were poaching there.
The soldier who fired the fatal shot with an M1 Carbine, a Private George E Smith of Pittsburg, USA, was sentenced to death and hung at Shepton Mallet prison on VE Day, despite a call for clemency from Teichman's widow. Of course, the memorial gives you none of these details, but the incident was quite a cause celebrƩ at the time, I believe.
So it was all very interesting, and despite the gloom of the nave I decided that I liked Honingham church. We went out to the car and set off for East Tuddenham.
But back in 2006 we were still sitting in the porch, of course. The snow gradually thinned, and at last it stopped. We stepped out, examining the sky for signs. An uneasy truce had set in. Just a thin dusting remained on the grass to show that it had ever snowed; the sun was edging to come out, the white rime on the green fading, but there were more sheets of greying clouds huddled off in the distance. It was time to go. We wanted to make a statement of some kind, and so we left the porch gates open, as if to suggest that the the doors were not barred, and that God was in His dwelling house waiting to bid a welcome.
But by the time we got back to the car and headed eastwards past the church, someone had already closed them.
I finally talked someone into doing this!! hehehehe.
Call it cheesy, but I'm a cheeseball, and I love it. I think I'm going to do a series of these!
(She is wearing three tutus and 2 pairs of wings!)
Dark turquoise is a very cool Lego color. Don't expect any more of these, but it was quite a worthwhile challenge to pull this off. A couple of liberties were taken, but overall the color scheme and build are true to the original. It does work on Lego track, but I didn't build the trucks to meter gauge scale yet. That would require me to build my own track and I haven't decided to do that so far. The pilot stairs are connected to the trucks in this version.
CN L516 rolls through Griffith, Indiana with a surprise lash up of classic EMD power, with an ex-MoPac SD40-2 in charge.
The "golden" mountain of DrĆ”puhlĆĆ° in SnƦfellsnes is covered with ice but rain is coming from the south and the clouds are piling up on the SnƦfellsnes ridge
Out and about with cool moonlight and flying sparks and Chris Renfro. It's getting to be that time of year when I can have a good evening of light painting in the mountains and still get home in time for few hours of sleep before my two-year-old wants to get up and play.
She just informed me that I have two minutes before we need to go to the bakery where she can have a muffin and I can get the coffee I desperately need this morning. Good times.
Did not expect to see an MPD still operational under the Arriva Buses Wales books. The first examples were introduced to Llandudno Junction depot in June 1999 and, well, might as well eke another six months out of LJ51 DDF (921) so the once perennial staples of the North Walian roads can celebrate a 20 year association with the welsh based chapter of the Arriva corporation. Pertaining to Bangor specifically, I think the year 2000 was when an MPD trod its wheels for the first time around the bustling 'Cloc' terminus and 18 years into the future, 921 was caught in the subsiding rainfall on a wholly miserable day. The service is the Bangor circular, taking in the Maesgeirchen estate and Tesco in the industrial park.
19th December 2018.
My beautiful wife expecting our baby boy! <3
Canon EOS 350D
Isco-Gottingen Berolina Westromat 135mm f:3.5
That's what I'm doing all right! ...And I know you love it too! [Giggle!]
I just love this clingy wet look "wiggle dress" that came in from coquetryclothing.com! I thought it would look good, but I didn't expect it to look _this_ good! Call me a happy (very happy) customer!
I've matched this marvelous red "Mystique" wet look lycra spandex halter style minidress arrived from coquetryclothing.com with my Premier copper fully fashioned Euro heel stockings from secretsinlace.com and my black patent peep toe platform pumps with the 5" heels from venus.com.
To see more pix of me in stockings and lingerie click this link: www.flickr.com/photos/kaceycdpix/sets/72157627113549549/
To see more pix of me in other tight, sexy and revealing outfits click this link:www.flickr.com/photos/kaceycdpix/sets/72157623668202157/
To see more pix of me in clothes from Coquetry Clothing click this link: www.flickr.com/photos/kaceycdpix/sets/72157626739774869/
To see more pix of me showing off my legs click this link: www.flickr.com/photos/kaceycdpix/sets/72157623668202157/
To see more pix of me in fully fashioned stockings click this link: www.flickr.com/photos/kaceycdpix/sets/72157627113549549
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