Nature is dying, we are poisoning her. That is old news. What is astonishing is the sheer amount of industrialization and decadence exuded by the developed nations, who has the capability and the resources to avoid the fate. Purchasing 'Carbon credits' to 'transfer' the blame is hypocritical.

Dublin Ireland

Named for Padrig Pearse, Leader of the Easter Uprising April 2016. He was executed for his role.

Perhaps Pearse foresaw this future role in a poem he wrote called “The Rebel”:

I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow

That have no treasure but hope,

No riches laid up but a memory

Of an Ancient glory.

My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,

I am of the blood of serfs;

The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten,

Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,

And, though gentle, have served churls…

… And I say to my people’s masters: Beware,

Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people,

Who shall take what ye would not give.

Did ye think to conquer the people,

Or that Law is stronger than life and than men’s desire to be free?

We will try it out with you, ye that have harried and held,

Ye that have bullied and bribed, tyrants, hypocrites, liars!

The most perfect and satisfactory reason to shape the hips, is that one can wear whatever women wear AND most important of all, what ever tranny´s dare. This is especially the case where the infamous ”too short skirt” is in consideration and especially as we witness above, when no skirt at all is used and is replaced by, what is known among women as a sweater/cardigan, but is WAY long enough to function as a dress in the T-girl universe.

It is only fair to say in defense of women that this sweater practically IS too short to function as a dress, resulting in potentially embarrassing situations plus one has to constantly pull it down. But what is considered annoying and even embarrassing among women, is considered QUITE sexy and attractive among trannys.

To day I really boosted the hips to the max. - Don't know why really, just felt like trying. But dear spirits what a result. Personally I am a ”leg man” (and woman... I guess...) but I really find hips is almost.. ”part” of that leg attraction.

Feast my eyes on a pair of beautiful legs and if the hips are just as perfect and harmoniously feminine.. trust me, looking further up the body I have VERY little critic what so ever to the rest.

But truly.. if such perfect legs are wearing sexy high heels, invitingly shining soft nylon stockings and a tight short skirt... my mind becomes VERY uncontrollable in its direction and focus, and my heart holds it breath so long, I need to forcefully tell it to breath again.

If women truly knew the power of these things and dared harness it's magic. They would not only hold men enchanted in their grasp, they would rule the world. *LOL* If women united world wide and denied men sex for some demand or reason, men would come crawling, begging within a week, bringing presents along with promises (though empty as they would be) of fulfilling any wish women wanted.

If any hypocrites ever claim that ”men are the strong sex”, know that in truth men are by far the most pitiful and pathetic. It IS no mere coincidence that far more than 9 out of 10 prostitutes on this entire planet are women. Further more if men denied WOMEN sex, demanding something in return, the world would never have heard such magnitudes, volumes and cheerful laughter from women, as women would most likely consider it a an invigorating experience, along side which treat it like a blissful vacation knowing very well men them self would crack up like puddle, before women themselves even get close to the state of being ”spontaneous desperate”.

Dave: Agnes and Bruno, are you guys planning on getting out of bed today?

Agnes: Already did that. Went pee. It was cold.

Dave: And the cold canceled your plans for the rest of the day?

Agnes: Nope. Just my outside plans. I have still have other plans.

Dave: Would you care to elaborate?

Agnes: Always do. I plan to hang out in bed with big fuzzy pillow here.

Dave: So can I assume that you don't want to go for a walk?

Agnes: Is the walk outside?

Dave: Yes.

Agnes: Then no. I'm good up here with this furry head rest.

Dave: And Bruno, how do you feel about this?

Bruno: A little squished. But overall quite comfy.

Dave: And do you want to go outside?

Bruno: Sure thing. The cold doesn't bother me. But, first I have three more things that I want to accomplish from my list.

Dave: Wow, a list of three things. That's ambitious for you.

Bruno: Sure is. I thought I would aim high.

Dave: And what would those three things be?

Bruno: First nap, second nap, and third nap. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to get to my to do list.

----------

We're still in the dead of winter here. The wind chill is below -35c. And although Bruno doesn't mind the cold, Agnes would rather spend the day hanging out in bed.

This was actually a tough shot to get as Bruno is a big hypocrite about personal space. He demands to be in everyone else's personal space, but if Agnes touches him he always grumbles about puppy touching him then moves away. I'm convinced that she has started to do touch him on purpose to get to better cuddle spots with her humans. This shot was only possible with lots of patience and numerous repositioning of the dogs. Also, no treats were allowed at the photo session as Bruno gets a little distracted and excited when treats are in play so he never would have been able to fulfil his role as furry pillow/backdrop for the photo.

My inflatable doll for the Vinyl Volitions collective exhibition at GBTH is based in a true story*...well, in a true pumpkin too. Those true pumpkins in the picture are now temporary art objects that will end like soup or like pie. Pre-pie art?

Maybe, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that they won't end like food waste.

* "Halloween is an ecological disaster" should be the name of the story. Every year, about 1 million tonnes of pumpkins are grown in the US and UK (mainly). Of those, 95% are used at Halloween and then thrown away. It's not only the waste but also the water that is needed to make them grow. So let's cut the crap: It is not compatible to care about the environment and to celebrate Halloween at same time. Of course many "eco-friendly" people will probably throw a hand of flimsy argumentation to legitimate their behaviour during the next days.

Also: Most of the Halloween related products are designed to be disposable, just like many people's environmental awareness.

If your pumpkins are in a good home, anthropomorphize them creatively and eat them later.

Trick-or-treating?

The "trick" is to stop being hypocritical and start "treating" good the environment.

If you managed to read this far, thanks.

Go visit Vinyl Volitions here!

www.flickr.com/photos/claudiusbinoche/sets/72157651655361...

Il est certainement l’un des plus sulfureux artistes de sa génération, peintre, aquafortiste, dessinateur, illustrateur et graveur, Félicien Rops, le provocateur, est né à Namur le 7 juillet 1833.

En 1851, Rops s’inscrit à l’Université libre de Bruxelles pour une candidature en philosophie, préparatoire au droit. Il y retrouve plusieurs amis namurois et noue de nouvelles relations dont une, capitale, avec l’écrivain Charles De Coster. Il trouve rapidement sa place parmi les cercles étudiants les plus actifs : la « Société des Joyeux » et le « Cercle des Crocodiles ». Il en devient le dessinateur attitré et s’initie avec talent à la lithographie. Deux ans plus tard, il s’inscrit à « l’atelier libre Saint-Luc », un des centres de ralliement de la bohème bruxelloise où s’échangeaient les idées d’avant-garde. Il y rencontre Artan, Dubois, Charles De Groux, Constantin Meunier…, futurs tenants du réalisme en Belgique.

"Rops suis, vertueux ne puis, hypocrite ne daigne". Cette profession de foi, l’artiste belge la déclinera sa vie durant. Son œuvre et son mode de vie reflètent l'indépendance d'esprit et de création qui caractérise ses dessins, gravures et illustrations.

Graveur et dessinateur d’exception, Félicien Rops capte et anticipe des corps de femmes d’une modernité absolue. Abandonnant les formes conventionnelles de l’époque, l’artiste crée des mises en scènes pleines d’humour, de tendresse ou d’insolence pour la jubilation de l’œil du spectateur. Les titres de ses œuvres ne sont guère innocents et témoignent d’une imagination débordant des conventions. Aucun sujet n’est tabou, ni la mort, ni les saintes écritures, qui sont illustrées sous l’angle tout particulier d’un saint Antoine confronté à la tentation de la chair. Rops vivait dans une société bloquée, où les bourgeois, habillés comme il faut, prônaient les valeurs convenues qui confortaient leurs principes, dont le paraître et la propriété. Il étouffait dans le conformisme ambiant et très tôt, ses œuvres et spécialement ses «nus» visèrent à explorer l'envers du décor de la culture bourgeoise. Rops déshabillait la femme non pour la souiller, mais pour exalter son pouvoir de vie face au pouvoir de mort d'un «establishment» engoncé dans les certitudes économiques et les dogmes moraux ou religieux. À son époque le sexe était synonyme de scandale pour le puritanisme imposé par les dominants ; Rops s'en servit donc à l'envi, ne supportant point de devenir un artiste toléré dans une société intolérante.

www.flickr.com/photos/claudiusbinoche/sets/72157651655361...

He is certainly one of the most sulphurous artists of his generation, painter, etcher, draftsman, illustrator and engraver, Félicien Rops, the provocateur, was born in Namur on July 7, 1833.

In 1851, Rops enrolled at the Free University of Brussels for a candidacy in philosophy, preparatory to law. There he found several friends from Namur and forged new relationships, one of which, crucially, was with the writer Charles De Coster. He quickly finds his place among the most active student circles: the "Society of Merry" and the "Cercle of Crocodiles". He became its official draftsman and learned lithography with talent. Two years later, he enrolled in the “Atelier Libre Saint-Luc”, one of the rallying points for bohemian Brussels where avant-garde ideas were exchanged. There he met Artan, Dubois, Charles De Groux, Constantin Meunier…, future proponents of realism in Belgium.

"Rops am, virtuous do not then, hypocrite do not deign". This profession of faith, the Belgian artist will decline throughout his life. His work and his way of life reflect the independence of spirit and creation that characterizes his drawings, engravings and illustrations.

An exceptional engraver and draftsman, Félicien Rops captures and anticipates women's bodies of absolute modernity. Abandoning the conventional forms of the time, the artist creates scenes full of humor, tenderness or insolence for the jubilation of the eye of the spectator. The titles of his works are hardly innocent and testify to an imagination overflowing with conventions. No subject is taboo, neither death nor the Holy Scriptures, which are illustrated from the very particular angle of Saint Anthony confronted with the temptation of the flesh. Rops lived in a blocked society, where the bourgeois, dressed as they should, advocated agreed values that reinforced their principles, including appearance and property. He was suffocating in the ambient conformism and very early on, his works and especially his “nudes” aimed to explore behind the scenes of bourgeois culture. Rops undressed women not to defile them, but to exalt their power of life in the face of the power of death of an “establishment” stuck in economic certainties and moral or religious dogma. In his time, sex was synonymous with scandal for the puritanism imposed by the dominant; Rops therefore used it at will, not supporting to become a tolerated artist in an intolerant society.

Sometimes, I want to get away from this hypocritical world.

The above photo - ' Haggs Farm in Summer ' . The small farm on the Barber Estate was a place that D.H.Lawrence always remembered .

The picture was taken on a summer day in 1959.

__________________________________________

Below

Text - ` You Haggites see the Best of Me ! ' - is lecture material text used by Prof.John Worthen of Nottingham University to aid understanding and appreciation of Lawrence's 1928 letter to David Chambers . The text was used as the basis of his lecture to the Haggs Farm Preservation Society's annual David Chambers Memorial Gathering in Eastwood , Nottinghamshire in October of 2003 . )

Note : D.H.Lawrence would refer to the Chambers family as Haggites .

___________________________________

Lecture notes commencing : " What the Haggites did not see - was something Lawrence was very, very aware of all his life - his capacity to be cold, objective and judgemental . "

A picture of D.H.Lawrence when a pupil-teacher and a welcome visitor to the Haggs is on-line in this Flickr photostream .

LECTURE .

" I am very honoured to have been asked to be your J. D. Chambers lecturer this year; I've known the name of Jonathan David Chambers ever since I started looking into Lawrence's life, about forty years ago, and I always depended heavily on his writing about his family and about Jessie as a kind of counterweight to what Jessie herself wrote. To be asked to give this lecture is, to me, to be given an opportunity to speak gratefully and sympathetically in memory of a man whose life's work and life's writing it is natural to honour: and whom oddly I think of personally (though I never knew him) with great respect and affection: I have learned so much from him.

I'm very conscious of the possibilities lurking in my title, `Ah, you Haggites see the best of me!' Lawrence said it (according to Jessie) more than once: he said it `whimsically': and it leaves me not only with the question `why was that? why did they see the best of him?' but with the more worrying question `so what was Lawrence like when you didn't see the best of him?'

I am going to start by looking again at one of the famous documents of Lawrence's relationship with the Chambers family: the letter he wrote on 15 November 1928 about the Haggs - wrote it, of course, to J. D. Chambers himself. This is what Lawrence wrote, from the island of Port Cros in the Mediterranean:

Quote : " Dear David

Postscript : Lawrence gives a postscript with his London agent's address.

However lovely the letter, whenever I read it I am struck all over again by the kind of powerful, overpowering, even devouring, nostalgia in it, of a kind in which Lawrence very, very rarely engaged (I can only actually think of one other example: it doesn't even occur in his writing about the ranch, which he regretted long and deeply. ). The letter is also fascinating for what it leaves out: for example, any mention of Jessie Chambers: or even actually saying how dearly Lawrence still remembered the Chambers family. He says in Italian - and not many of the family, if any, would have understood that - that there are times past: how dear, you will never know. Which he couldn't say in English. I do find that odd.

The lack of reference to Jessie is very striking. It was perhaps tactful; he couldn't have helped realising that how he had treated her, even so long ago, might still be a sore subject in the Chambers family, who must have seen him - for a while at least - as someone who had in effect been engaged to Jessie, and who had then abandoned her for another woman. (I'm not saying that that was what had happened: but that was how they might well have seen it.) The family understood the letter well enough, of course: enough not to dare to tell Jessie what he had written. They only told her about that letter the week after his death in 1930. They were right. She confessed on 10 March 1930 that if she had known about it, `I could not have kept from writing [to him]. But they never told me until now.'

But why did Lawrence swear such undying love for the place and the moment, and the memories, in that letter, not having (so far as I know) written anything enthusiastic about the Haggs for 15 years?

I want to do two things. The first is, to sketch in quickly an account of Lawrence's relationship with the Haggs and the Chambers family: and then to examine that letter in the context of what Lawrence was feeling and writing in 1928.

In the early 1890s, the Chambers family were living along Greenhills Lane near the Breach (while the Lawrences were living there). The father, Edmund Chambers, a native of Eastwood (his father, `Pawny Chambers', and mother had run a pawnbroker's shop), had a smallholding and a milk round in Eastwood. Edmund's wife Ann was, like Lydia Lawrence, a stranger in Eastwood, and a woman who never seems to have been especially happy there; she struck up acquaintance with Lydia Lawrence at the Chapel in Albert Street. Both of them disliked the mining communities to which their husbands had brought them, and J. D. Chambers would later suggest that they `found in the Chapel . . . the only place in which they felt really at home in an otherwise alien world'.

The Chambers family went out to the Haggs in 1898, and Lydia Lawrence had a standing invitation to visit them, but it was not until the early summer of 1901 that she and Lawrence first followed the field paths out there, on a half holiday in his last the early summer term at the High School: he a `tall, fair boy' with a `swiftly changing expression', she a `bright, vivacious little woman'. Those are the words of May Chambers, always an acid commentator, who recognised how the Lawrences came `from the bricks and mortar of streets of houses where bay windows and front room furniture and new clothes were so very important'. That was the world which some at least of the Chambers family prided themselves on having left, but which the Lawrences had risen into: the bay-window in Walker Street, the suite of mahogany and horse-hair chairs, the Brussels carpet rather than the usual rag rugs of the miner's house, the mahogany chiffonier and the oval table. But whereas Lydia Lawrence had always fought the dominating male figures of her world, whether her father or her husband, or her sons, Ann Chambers felt dominated by her men-folk; she had had her last child at the age of thirty-nine and would `shudder when the subject of sex was mentioned'. Mrs Morel, on an equivalent visit to the farm in Sons and Lovers, pities her friend: `I'm sorry for her, and I'm sorry for him too.'

Lawrence's joy in going to the Haggs was not only, however, a reaction against the ugliness, narrowness or conventionality of his home in Eastwood. Lawrence first made friends with the two younger boys, Hubert and Bernard, and then with Alan; years later he would tell a friend that the nearest he had ever come to `perfect love' had been at the age of `about sixteen', with another boy, which would be before September 1902. He was certainly thinking of one of the Chambers' boys: I am almost sure he meant Alan. May was in the middle of a prolonged adolescent extraction of herself from her family, and rejected the High School boy's offer of help with her homework; but the younger daughter, Jessie, seems to have been drawn to Lawrence from the start. Although his relationship with her would develop into one of the most important of his young life, when he first started going to the Haggs regularly in 1902 she was no more than a rather immature fifteen. He was both better read and better educated, as well as eighteen months older, and did not spend much time with her. Her reaction to being surrounded by brothers who were physically active, and rather contemptuous of her, had been to shut herself away in a world of her own in which she was the heroine of poetry and romance; her younger brothers despised this and `took delight' - again, J. D. says this - `in bursting in on her rhapsodical moods and shattering her poetical day-dreams in a wild scrimmage of slaps and bangs'. J. D. remembered her, though, as `equal to anybody'; nearly as tall as her elder brother Alan, as photographs show, she was equally broad-shouldered; solidly built, disciplined, dedicated, yearning. J. D. also recalled how she would stand up to her younger brothers: she would `wind a scarf round each fist and challenge them both to a fight'. Her `lighter moods', however, were rare. More often, she was simply angry with boys and men for bossing her about or ignoring her. By contrast with her brothers, Lawrence was someone serious; the realisation seems to have come around 1903, when he and she found themselves talking increasingly, and Lawrence entered her life as the person she believed would save her from her family. Eventually he offered to teach her; and together they worked on the very subjects, `algebra and French', which distinguished ordinary education from advanced. (You will remember Paul Morel being ribbed by a miner on pay day for doing nowt at school except `algìbbra an' French', and thoroughly resenting it. ) This was the period of Lawrence's intense attachment to the Haggs. He's coming up to nineteen years old.

III

But it is hard to overestimate how important the Haggs family was for Lawrence, both before and after he became close to Jessie. The coincidence of his return to life in the spring and summer of 1902, after the illness of the winter of 1901 in which he had nearly died, with this discovery of another family to which he eagerly turned, and individuals whom he loved, strongly suggests the extent to which he was reacting against the intimacy of home and mother which made such demands on him in Eastwood. Not for the last time in his life, a passionate emotional involvement (in this case with his mother) had grown up in Lawrence simultaneously with a powerful desire to break away from the very object of his love. What many, even most people feel to some extent, in love and relationship, about attachment and a need for some distance, Lawrence lived through with an intensity that was surprising and often shocking. The way he turned to the Chambers family around 1902-03 is perhaps its first clear instance.

For the laughter, anger, outbursts and loud quarrels of the Chambers family would have felt very different from the moralising, critical and emotionally stifling atmosphere of Walker Street. In Eastwood Lawrence was up against a household dominated by women: his mother and Ada (and until her marriage Emily), with his father largely absent or silenced. The Haggs Farm offered a simpler, old-fashioned world, in which men took precedence if they could, and women argued back: were not simply morally superior. The Chambers boys looked down on their sisters and tried to order them about; the girls fiercely resisted. But, for adolescents in particular, other people's families are nearly always easier to deal with than their own. The Chambers family probably felt more emotionally secure to Lawrence because of their constant quarrels, their overt affections, their singing and boisterous intimacy, their jokes and laughter: `He used to say that our laughter was Homeric.' He `made us even happy with one another while he was there, - no small achievement in a family like ours!'

From 1902 to 1906, he discovered how much and how happily he could be `at home' there. Ann Chambers loved him `like one of her own', and he loved her; he was clearly devoted to Alan; and with the Chambers family he could be the lively and cheerful son he found it so much more difficult to be at home. It is never too late to have a happy childhood; and Lawrence found his at the Haggs. He could be an exhilarating companion, and probably first discovered this, too, at the uninhibited Haggs. Nearly fifty years later May recalled `Bert with his mischievous grin': his vivacity, his sense of adventure, his capacity for games and mimicry and fun were what he brought to them.

It all feels to me rather like Arthur Lawrence escaping Lydia Lawrence, and leaving behind the strictness of home and its moral absolutes for the country, and the mine, and the `wholesome happiness' of uncritical companionship. May Chambers's fiancé Will Holbrook recalled how Lawrence `loved to come where he could do and say just what he pleased, even to using strong language to win his point'. That's Arthur, unrepressed. And it was at the Haggs that Lawrence seemed most like his father. He sang with the family (his father had been in the choir of St James's Church at Brinsley as a boy), and he also demonstrated how he could dance `in our little kitchen, and once while we paused for breath he said: “Father says one ought to be able to dance on a threepenny bit”.' Jessie, knowing Lawrence's hatred of his father, was surprised at that little revelation; but Lawrence also demonstrated to the Chambers' family his talent (his father's too) for mimicry. One set piece was a long-drawn-out row between his father and his mother, about a ham which Arthur had brought home and then stopping payment for it each week out of the housekeeping money; in the end the story took Arthur's side (`Woman, how'd tha feaace') and reduced its listeners to uproarious helplessness. J. D. Chambers, again, remembered: `I think everyone loved him at this time; he combined with his vivacity a sweetness of disposition that was quite irresistible.'

It was hardly surprising that his mother and his sisters grew jealous of his constant visits. Very soon after he started going, he confessed to May Chambers that, though he wanted to come one Saturday, `They won't let me'; while Jessie recalled: `He told us rather shamefacedly that his mother said he might as well pack his things and come and live with us.' Mothers always say things like that. The Lawrences naturally resented his concentration on a family so unlike themselves; and they would in the end come to be deeply suspicious of the amount of time he and Jessie spent together (it was a way of focussing their disapproval of the Haggs). Lawrence was acutely aware of their disapproval but commented, sadly, `If it wasn't this, it would be something else.' They'd always be morally critical of something. Emily once even insisted on coming out to the Haggs with him, to see what was so special about it, but all she found memorable was `that awful walk'.

These visits to the Haggs remained a problem for years; the fact that Lawrence kept going shows how necessary they were for him. In Eastwood, he felt valued and centred at home. But home for him never simply meant being cherished and sustained by a mother's love: it was also a terrible strain, growing up the beloved son of Lydia Lawrence, and carrying for her the burden of her unhappiness and her anger with her husband and what she felt was the waste of her own life.

Between 1902 and 1906, then, Lawrence lived a kind of double life: hard at work in Eastwood during the week, as a model son, pupil, teacher and family member, but going out to the Haggs every weekend. It was the period in his life when, perhaps above all else, the Haggs offered both devotion and companionship in equal measure: something for which he went on looking for the rest of his life. We can hear it in that letter of November 1928: `Then I'd sit on the sofa under the window, and we'd crowd round the little table to tea, in that tiny little kitchen I was so at home in.'

Let me come back to the letter. The context in which it was written helps us understand quite a lot about it. Lawrence and Frieda had left the Villa Mirenda near Florence in June 1928 and spent July and August at altitude in Switzerland - where they were visited by Peggy and her mother Emily. Lawrence had actually had a wretched summer, with small bronchial haemorrhages continuing: the place they'd chosen to go to, Gsteig bei Gstaad, at 4,000 feet, was incredibly steep in all directions. Once up there, in the chalet Kesselmatte, Lawrence was in effect marooned: and they were there for more than two months, over July and August down to September. Finally, they came down; they went to see Frieda's mother in Baden-Baden; and while there the Lawrences finally decided to give up the Villa Mirenda, their current home near Florence. Although they had at first enjoyed living there, the Mirenda was now irresistibly linked in Lawrence's mind with his bronchial haemorrhages of July 1927. Places he associated with illness (like Oaxaca and Mexico City, and now Florence) he never wanted to go back to, so he was now convinced that the Mirenda `didn't suit my health'. Frieda returned to the Mirenda to see to the packing up of their belongings; Lawrence waited for her in the Mediterranean port of Le Lavandou. They had been invited for the winter to the island of Port Cros, where old friends - Richard Aldington, his partner `Arabella' (Dorothy) Yorke and Brigit Patmore - had acquired a house. This must have particularly appealed to Lawrence, after the failure of altitude to do him any good: sea air, the Mediterranean, would surely be better.

Aldington was, however, both malicious and discreet when he commented that Frieda's task of giving up the Mirenda was `a complicated process, since it involved a journey to Trieste'. Frieda had seen rather little of Angelo Ravagli (now stationed at Gradisca, near Trieste) since April, and it is my understanding that - by now - she had started her affair with him: perhaps around April 1928. In Le Lavandou, therefore, Lawrence could do nothing except sit and wait for her.

La Vigie was the house at the top of the island of Port Cros: another place with the most marvellous view, of the kind that Lawrence chose to live in, time after time. But his health was, by the autumn of 1928, a real problem. The steepness of the road from the harbour up to La Vigie meant that he was `perched, as at Kesselmatte', and could not go with the others when they went down to go swimming each afternoon. Aldington would listen to Lawrence's `dreadful hollow cough at night, and wonder what on earth I should do if he got worse'; they agreed that one of them should always stay with him when the rest of the party went off for the day or the afternoon. Frieda had come back from Italy (and Ravagli) with a cold, which of course poor Lawrence instantly caught. He also had `two days hemorrhage' and felt `rather rotten': `this is worse than the Mirenda', he found himself thinking.

It was while they were on the island, too, that Lawrence got a letter from his agent, which included the responses to Lady Chatterley which had appeared in the English press during the autumn. There were at least two: a piece in the Sunday Chronicle, and John Bull's notorious review. These had both appeared in mid-October. This is Brigit Patmore's account:

`My God!' one of us gave a shout. `Here, in this one, Lorenzo, one of them calls you a cesspool!'

He made a grimace which might have been a smile or slight nausea.

`Really? One's fellow creatures are too generous. It's quite worth while giving of one's best, isn't it?' Then, as if speaking to himself, `Nobody likes being called a cesspool.'

But various things were going wrong at La Vigie, apart from Lawrence's illness and those reviews, and the fact that Lawrence would now have known for certain that Frieda was having an affair with Ravagli. It was at La Vigie that Aldington - partnered to Arabella Yorke for ten years - would start an affair with Brigit Patmore, and both the Lawrences sided with Arabella, of whom they were very fond. Lawrence ended up violently angry with Aldington: and the party broke up months earlier than originally planned. But worst of all, Lawrence was thoroughly depressed and miserable on Port Cros. One afternoon when the three others were off swimming - they all bathed, Aldington recalled with relish more than thirty years later, `naked daily together on one of the plages of Port-Cros, and then lay in the sun' - Lawrence told Brigit Patmore (staying with him that afternoon) a little about his desolation: `When you think you have something in your life which makes up for everything, and then find you haven't got it.' She tried to tell him that his writing had mattered immensely to her in re-establishing her own sense of herself after she had been ill; but found she was only making matters worse. He replied: `Yes. Once I could do that. But I can't any more.' In the past, he could convey his experience of the body and its desires directly in his writing. He felt that that no longer happened; such writing was now inevitably either nostalgic or reminiscent.

And it was at just this point that the letter from J. D. Chambers came, and Lawrence wrote the famous response. Its nostalgia - for a time when he was well, active, young, hopeful - is palpable, and inevitably added to by many of the things that were happening round him. Its desperately nostalgic reminiscence of the old days - `whatever else I am, I am somewhere still the same Bert who rushed with such joy to the Haggs' - is that of a man who had left all that terribly far behind him, and who must have wondered whether he really was the same Bert any more. It's an odd formulation: `Whatever else I am' - as if he feared that he had indeed changed, into something he didn't like much. He actually uses the technique twice in the letter: `whatever else I am' and `Whatever I forget': suggesting that there was also a lot that he would forget, if he could.

What is most remarkable, however, is how the letter keeps stressing how much at home he was at the Haggs. The whole subject of `home' is central in Lawrence's life and writing. On the one hand, he would, so to speak, come home repeatedly in his writing, as he recreated the people and the landscapes of the Eastwood region, even when living and writing hundreds of miles away: acknowledging how intimately he belonged to his family and its loving mother, even as he wrote his way out of it (declaring that he rejected any idea of home, or love, and hated Eastwood and the past). But belonging to `home' was always intensely problematic for him. Frieda `craved for a home and solidity': Lawrence insisted he never did. Back in August 1923, about to sail to England with Frieda from New York, he told Murry that, now it came to it, he could not bear the thought of `England and home and my people': and he did not go. When he eventually did, in December, one of the first things he did was write the caustic essay `On Coming Home' for Murry's Adelphi. In 1925, he insisted that coming back to England was not `coming home': `I won't say home, it isn't home.' And when he was finally back in 1925, and had seen the Midlands again, he had written, despairingly, `Nothing depresses me more than to come home to the place where I was born.'

So, in 1928, where was Lawrence now at home? He and Frieda had, literally, just given up their home at the Mirenda; they had no home. And though he was with a group of friends at Port Cros, he still felt horribly isolated and cut off. The Haggs farm had been one of the very few places in Lawrence's life where he had felt at home, and he never forgot it: now it felt as if it were the home he wanted to be in, as opposed to the Eastwood family home to which he belonged and continued to fight with himself about (and which he was still resenting in 1928). He had actually reacted badly to that visit from Emily and Peggy to Gsteig a couple of months earlier: Emily had, for example, called him `our Bert', thus claiming him for the family: but he insisted that `I am not really “our Bert”. Come to that, I never was.' He had once been, for sure; but (I agree) he was so no longer. On the other hand, he was sadly struck by the gulf between him and his sister, `always yawning, horribly obvious to me': `somehow it depresses me terribly'.

For in another mood from the one in which he wrote to J. D. Chambers, he would have rejected the whole idea of home, or feeling nostalgic about the past. On his last visit to England, a couple of years earlier, in September 1926, he had been for a walk with Willie Hopkin, and they had come in sight of the Haggs. We can reconstruct what happened then from what Hopkin remembered, and from what Lawrence used of that walk in the second version of Lady Chatterley's Lover, where Connie and Parkin also come in view of the Haggs, on the last page of the novel. They stop `above the grey-green country. Across was Haggs Farm. Beyond, Underwood, the mining village and the mines.' And the narrator comments: `Dead as Ninevah . . . the mill-ponds at Felley lying so still, abandoned, abandoned like everything that is not coal or iron, away below. The dead country-side!' Hopkin and Lawrence, however, went even closer; and Hopkin watched Lawrence when they got to Felley:

he stood still and looked across to the Haggs. I went and sat by the pond. After a few minutes I turned and looked at him. He stood stiffly as a statue, and there was an expression of dreadful pain on his face. After a while he told me to come along. For ten minutes he never spoke a word, and then he broke out into a lot of brilliant nonsense. As we neared his old house [the Lynn Croft house, perhaps, but possibly the Walker Street house] he never gave it a glance. I asked when he was coming over again. His reply was “Never! I hate the damned place.”

In another version of his account of their time at Felley, as Lawrence stood looking across to the Haggs, Hopkin wrote how `I have seen sadness on many a face, but nothing like Lawrence's at that moment.'

This is especially interesting in the light of that letter to J. D. Chambers. The warmth of the Haggs family and the time there glowed all the more vividly in November 1928 not only because of the weakened physical state in which Lawrence now existed, but because it was tantalising as an idea of what belonging to a group of people, at home happily together, might after all be like: and because it also made him despair (`whatever else I might be . . . whatever I forget'). He had spent his life fighting away from love, especially familial warmth and love: he had always insisted he did not want it. But now, on Port Cros, at all times living the life of an invalid, cut off from the lively everyday concerns of the people he was with, with those reviews of Lady Chatterley reminding him how much hatred was waiting for him in England, he must have felt more torn between home and a lonely present than ever. The reaction between belonging and independence was very actual to him. He didn't go swimming naked every day on Port Cros: he wasn't one of the crowd. And he was more cut off from Frieda than he had been, since 1912: in one way, he really was on his own again. Well, he had always wanted to be independent. But oh to be nineteen again . . . Thinking about the Haggs thus took on an intense nostalgia not just for the Haggs but for something missing in his life: call it home, or family, or warmth, or love.

His response to J. D. Chambers tells us, in fact, a great deal more about Lawrence in 1928 than about the Lawrence of 1904 (when he was nineteen). Both the nostalgic joy and the despair underlying the letter belong to that very difficult complex of feelings around home, and belonging, and being independent, cold and detached, which had gone on in him since he was a teenager.

So what had he meant, so many years earlier, when he had said to the Chambers family, `Ah, you Haggites see the best of me'? What was it that he was all too aware of, but which they didn't see? What would it have been like to see the worst of him? What was the worst of him?

We all get involved in the myths of our own lives; we start to enact the feelings which we ought to have had; the feelings we tell ourselves we should have had, because this WAS a time of sheer, unalloyed joy, this time at the Haggs. But there was a side of Lawrence, as he very well knew, which was utterly different from his loveable, loving, nostalgic side. It's horribly easy to show this. Almost exactly eleven months before writing the letter to J. D. Chambers, Lawrence had written - for the early experience of Mellors in Lady Chatterley's Lover - an account of a relationship which in its details is taken exactly from Lawrence's experience of Jessie, as he had known her at the Haggs between 1902 and 1910. How could the person who could write with such nostalgia and love about the Haggs, and his feelings about it, also have written this?

I'll tell you . . . The first girl I had, I began with when I was sixteen . . . I was a supposed-to-be clever sort of young fellow from Sheffield Grammar School [for which read Nottingham High School], with a bit of French and German, very much up aloft. She was the romantic sort that hated commonness. She egged me on to poetry and reading: in a way, she made a man of me. I read and thought like a house on fire for her. And I was a clerk in Butterley Offices, then, white-faced fellow fuming with all the things I read. And about everything talked to her: but everything. We talked ourselves into Persepolis and Timbuctoo. We were the most literary-cultured couple in ten counties. I held forth with rapture to her, positively with rapture. I simply went up in smoke. And she adored me. - The serpent in the grass was sex. She somehow didn't have any - at least, not where it's supposed to be. I got thinner and crazier. Then I said we'd got to be lovers. I talked her into it, as usual. So she let me. I was excited, and she never wanted it. She just didn't want it. She adored me, she loved me to talk to her and kiss her: in that way, she had a passion for me. But the other, she just didn't want . . . And it was just the other that I did want. So there we split. I was cruel, and left her.

Yes, this is a novel. But the novel is taking a piece of autobiography and re-creating it, to make it something both absurd and cruel. In one way it's a monstrous lie: all the warmth and tenderness and love and inexperience of these years, what Jessie called `those years of devotion', being summed up and dismissed so crudely. If Jessie ever read that - and I fear that she probably did - then I think she would have been as hurt by it as she was by Sons and Lovers.

What the Haggites did not see was what Lawrence was very, very aware of all his life: his capacity to be cold, objective, judgemental: the very opposite of that warmly, richly emotional person he was in the letter to J. D. Chambers. I am not saying that the letter to J. D. Chambers was somehow hypocritical: no, it reproduces something very important in Lawrence, a desperate need for home and warmth and belonging and love. But that meets its match, if you like, in the cold paragraph of scorn from Mellors: which says `what a fool I was' and `what a waste of time that period was'. That is another of Lawrence's voices: I must say that I hear a maternal voice in it. It's not what the Haggites saw: the best of him: which was young, and so hopeful and loving. It was certainly hard for the young Lawrence to show the best of himself: but with them he managed to.

The Chambers family never forgot him: when he died in 1930, `We all, as a family, mourn him, for the memories of old days were unspeakably dear to us all.' Lawrence himself never forgot, perhaps never got over, his experience of the Haggs. It was the model for the occasions, time after time, when he tried to create a life, often in the country with a group of other people: at San Gaudenzio in 1913, in Zennor in 1916, at the ranch in 1922, at the Mirenda in 1926. In a life so full of radical changes, it was vitally important to him that, somehow, neither he nor the Haggs should change: meaning that he, too, could somehow remain that sociable and loving person, although he obviously had changed, and was now capable of such detachment, such control, such cold difference. The remark `I am somewhere still the same Bert who rushed with such joy to the Haggs' was nostalgic about himself too: he needed to go on being that person: needed to be the person the Haggites would go on seeing the best of, even in 1928. "

Lecture by John Worthen , Eastwood : 18th October , 2003

[Note - Lenton Sands and the Haggs Farm Preservation Society is grateful to Prof.Worthen for permitting the use of his material . The text was originally placed on-line as part of the now defunct "dhltohaggs" Geocities website of the Haggs farm Preservation Society . ]

( Flickr slot - plus 9 )

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THE TENANTS OF THE HAGGS .

Both the original dwellings were in the range of buildings now known as Old Haggs farmhouse. The first residents were the Anthony and Leivers families, the tenancy of the various generations being documented (from Melbourne estate records & other sources) as follows:- Leivers 1805 to 1821Alice (widow of John) : 1821 to 1836 Joseph (son of John) : 1837 to 1865 (son of Joseph) : 1866 to 1874 Anthony James :1805 Samuel (son of James) : 1817 to 1864 .

After Samuel's death, the tenancy was granted to George Turner who had married the widowed Mary Ann Moss, daughter of Samuel 1866 to 1879.In 1879 Turner was replaced as tenant by John Whittaker and due to the dilapidated state of this part of the property, it was decided to build a new cottage and convert the old dwelling to outbuildings for stock. The new cottage is what is known as New Haggs and from this time the tenancies of the 2 farms can most clearly be shown separately. Old Haggs John Leivers 1878 to 1898\par Edmund Chambers 1898 to 1912 George Ward 1912 to 1936 W Fry 1936 to1941 Albert Rigley 1941 to 1947 Frank Wilson 1949 to 1963 New Haggs John Whitaker 1879 to 1892 William Pearson 1892 to 1916 Albert Granger\b0\par 1916 to 1937\par \par \b H Whitehead\b0\par 1938 to 1941 Henry Clay 1945\par \par \b Alfred Maggs 1946 Albert Rigley,1947 to 1979

www.holyspiritspeaks.org/videos/city-will-be-overthrown-m...

Introduction

It is recorded in the Bible that the Lord Jesus condemned the Pharisees with the seven woes. Nowadays, the path walked by the pastors and elders of the religious world is that of the Pharisees and they similarly suffer God's detestation and rejection. So why did the Lord Jesus condemn and curse the Pharisees? It was primarily because they had a hypocritical essence that defied God, because they only paid attention to performing religious rituals and keeping rules, they only explained the rules and doctrines in the Bible and did not put God's words into practice or follow God's commandments whatsoever, and they even discarded God's commandments. Everything they did completely ran counter to God's will and requirements. This was the hypocritical essence of the Pharisees and it was the primary reason for the Lord Jesus hating and cursing them.

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This is my piece for the 'Spin on This' bike-artwork exhibition at the Recoat Gallery in Glasgow next weekend (opening August 7th). It's going to be an A3 digital print and a spoke card too, more info on that when they've been printed!

As for the design itself, I wanted to do something that parodies how elitist and 'fascistic' sub-cultures can be, especially the fixed gear scene. It's basically a modern piece of propaganda, as 'Death before Derailleur' is such a ridiculous and hypocritical phrase, I wanted to play on that.

It's all a bit of fun though, I ride fixed and don't care if a bike has 20 gear, no gears, 3 wheels or a basket - it's all good fun!

Best view on Black

recoat.blogspot.com/

Yesterday I was driving to work. And I was running late. But I still took time out of my already late ass to roll into a McDonalds.

No. Not to buy their nasty ass meals. But to just buy an iced coffee.

But I was coming up to the parking lot and saw the drive thru was filled with like 10 cars. I couldn’t help but think of the cattle resemblance of the cars lined up ready to buy mass made animal feed.

Fuck it.

I parked my car. Left it running. And told my kid to “Wait here babe”, as I ran in to the nasty food wannabe “restaurant” to get my lousy iced coffee.

But wait. I’m standing in line and looking around. What do I see? A lady with a mic running around bagging gross prepackaged microwaved nauseating food in a bag. A couple of people in the “back” microwaving nasty-patties and wrapping them up in a cheap ass wrapper just to throw down their “shoot” as to define it is “READY TO EAT!”

The orange juice came out of a machine. They just pressed a button with a recycled paper cup thrown underneath it. It released just enough juice for the paper cup to hold.

Everyone ran around like the world was ending. Run. Scurry. Fast. Go. Money money money!! Make the “food”. Throw it in a bag. Get it out the window. Move on to the next person.

Eat the cowfood. Divulge in the repugnance. Yum Yum Yum. Eat me. I’m a pre-packaged horrid over processed nastiness that has nothing to do with the cows, pigs, or chickens that I’m assuming at some point were killed for this madness.

Frozen, horrible, deep-fried, and vulgar. Fuck me in the ass you uneatable shit.

It all seemed so robotic. All those people running around. The person running the drivethru. The minimum wage person in the back running the microwave. The other person throwing shit in the deep fryer. The unseen person boxing up the nastiness. The other unseen person mass killing the a foreseen “animal” that originates from the disgusting shit we choose to put in our mouths.

Not my mouth. Too nauseating man.

Although that said, I’m not a McDonalds Nazi. Meaning I’ll treat my kid once or twice a month. In slight moderation the shit won’t kill you. I think I just psyched myself out to be disgusted by it all so I won’t eat it. Because in reality, most of it actually does TASTE good.

The shot at hand? Me being a total health hypocrite and putting a cigarette in my mouth in my bathroom. Then I proceeded to smoke it and take a self-portrait.

What’s worse? The crabby patty or the cancer stick?

The album below? A minimalist indie rock masterpiece. It’s catchy and cool and singable. I’d recommend it to anyone who wants to bop their head and think about how rad life is.

Location: my bathroom; Alameda, California

Taken: September 29th, 2009

Posted: November 6th, 2009

Album of the Day: Dreams by The Whitest Boy Alive

Video: Golden Cage by The Whitest Boy Alive

*=lapse

Location: Manjuyod Sand Bar at low tide

Negros Oriental, Philippines

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Good moments at the beach captured with these children.

I should say they are the lucky ones. There are many children around the globe who were abducted , leaving no trace where to find them. Some were taken from shadowy orphanage of poor countries, trafficked by network of abusers . Some were taken from care homes , or under adoption, whether officially legal or not , were being exploited, abused, even murdered. Those are the defenseless little ones whose cries and screams of extreme anguish and fear many haven't heard of, as the powers run behind the abused are enormously massive and dark , they muffled the sound of their screams to nothing, but the Lord heard the screams of innocent blood who's life wasted in the Altars of the hypocrites.

Luke 8:17

"There is nothing hidden that won't be revealed, and there is nothing secret that won't become known and come to light."

Now is the season of shame and diclosure of the abusers. The final judge is God . God is raising up people in this generation to stand for righteousness and expose evil that has been kept secret. This is Biblical prophecy on our face, that we may open eyes and return to the Lord in repentance.

*Kevin Annett : Satanic molesters and murderers of children

*Kevin Annett : Abducted Children raped, murdered , sacrifice on the Altars of Mollech

*Witnesses to 800 Irish children slaughtered / decapitated

Human hunting parties, killing the innocent children like in a fox hunt / ritualistic killing, blood drinking. Who on earth with a human soul and conscience can do that to another human being.

*Kevin Annett : Vatican on trial ITCCS update July 2014

Locke was founded in 1915 after a fire broke out in the Chinese section of nearby Walnut Grove. The Chinese who lived in that area decided that it was time to establish a town of their own. A committee of Chinese merchants, led by Lee Bing, Chan Hing Sai, Tom Wai, Chan Dai Kee, Ng So Hat, Chan Wai Lum, Chow Hou Bun, and Suen Dat Suin was formed. They approached land owner George Locke and inquired if they could build on his land. An agreement was reached. The town was laid out by Chinese architects and industrious building ensued. The founding of Lockeport, later 'Locke', was a reality. By 1920 Locke stood essentially as you see it now.

Levee construction originally brought the Chinese to this area, but by the time Locke was built most of the work was in farm labor. Locke had many businesses that catered to the farm workers and residents of this region. In the 1940's restaurants, bakeries, herb shops, fish markets, gambling halls, boarding houses, brothels, grocery stores, a school, clothing stores, and the Star Theatre lined the bustling streets of Locke. At its peak 600 residents, and as many as 1500 people occupied the town of Locke.

On August 2, 1970, Locke was added to the registry of national historical places, by the Sacramento County Historical Society, because of its unique status as the only town in the United States built exclusively by the Chinese for the Chinese.

Locke is no tourist trap, nor is it a ghost town. Its unusual, out-of-the-way charm is genuine. Perhaps it is this authenticity, without any hypocritical overtones, which brings so many out of town visitors to its doors.

source www.locketown.com/

America is big on “healing” through medications… I will be a hypocrite when I say this (when my mortgage depends on 👆), but maybe we give chemistry more power than physiology of a human ❤️

What's art about if it isn't about learning something? Well I learnt something. Several things actually. Will I use what I've learnt to grow and become wiser? That seems unlikely. So what did I learn?

1) Ice is very cold.

2) Icy water feels even colder.

3) Even kneeling on ice might not spread your weight enough to prevent it cracking.

4) Don't ever admit to doing something stupid. Especially not on the internet. You'll never know who might read it.

I've resigned myself to the fact that I won't ever feel confident enough in my creativity to know what it is I will make ahead of time, and I won't know how, whatever it is, will turn out. It was never an issue when noone ever saw what I make but now, a little self doubt lurks in the back of my mind, that I must make something interesting otherwise I shouldn't have bothered. Often, as I wander around some wild place somewhere (no not a bar in Blackpool on a Saturday night), I am thinking about future land art projects and the potential of different places. But always lurking there is the thought that it better be good when I get round to doing it.

On the face of it, this voice at the back of the room would seem to be a help, always encouraging me to try harder. But the weird thing is, this voice actually seems to be a hindrance. There is a subtle but important difference between "it better be good" and "I wonder if it'll be any good?"

When I listen to those words it seems to be an extra burden, a burden that makes it harder to tap into any creativity. I have no idea what creativity actually is, where it lives or how it operates. But what I do know is that you can plug into it directly if you would just relax and go with the flow. A sense of expectation of how something should be, how it ought to be, if only you tried hard enough is not where it's at. I think this is what I love about land art. As I start, the distractions, the so called "encouraging" voices just fade away and all that matters is the moment. And when enough moments join together, I often end up exactly where I wanted to be had I been thinking about it in the first place. I've said it before but it seems it is a hard lesson to learn. It's about the doing. The thinking, the planning, the expectations. None of this really helps.

So I set off, the frost crunching under my feet and doubting/encouraging voices in my head struggling to help me think of what I could do. I went to a small pool of dark water and tried to chop out some ice. Fun though that was, it didn't inspire me, so I continued to trudge up the hill. On the slopes either side of me, camo jacketed plonkers with shotguns and dogs attempted to shoot, stupid and inbred pheasants. A fitting challenge for the Saturday shotgun warriors. We haven't quite gone to the lengths of fencing in animals for rich (and fat) obnoxious clients to shoot but it isn't far off.

Now don't get me wrong, I am not hypocritical enough to suggest that shooting is completely wrong. I could only occupy the moral highground if I didn't eat industrially farmed animals and didn't ignore the fact that I couldn't kill, what I eat, myself. But I do wonder at the mentality of people who shoot animals for a hobby, as a way to relax, to let off steam on a Saturday morning. Does it make you feel manly to outwit a pheasant with a bunch of beaters, dogs and high powered weaponry? Is it simply target practice and honing a skill?

I always wonder whether they have something missing in their lives and their neuroses drive them to show off, inaudibly shouting "look at me, look at me, LOOK AT ME! I'm really, really important! I demand your attention!" Because what seems to be common amongst this activities is noise. Lots of it and the seemingly willfull need to pee off as many people as possible. Especially people who like peace and quiet!

How many examples can you think of? Here's a few for starters: riding big, powerful motorbikes around country lanes in the summer, riding jet skis across lakes and off shore, off roading on green lanes and shooting things for fun. Why oh why do all these things have to be so loud? And why do you have to do them in beautiful and quiet places and spoil the peace and quiet for so many others? Are you so lacking in empathy that you have no idea how you are spoiling it for everyone else? Or do you have a pathological need to take over places and claim them as yours to make up for your inadaquecies? I think this is one of the biggest splits in our species. The sensitive and the not sensitive. The noisy and the quiet. The considerate and inconsiderate.

So the soundtrack to my sculpturing went like this "hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!" As the beaters flushed the doomed birds from the undergrowth and "KABOOM! KABOOM!" as another pheasant bit the dust. I expect that if I ever go mad that that will be the soundtrack to my insanity too. I wanted to stand on a rock and shout out "shut the hell up you noisy idiots!" to try and get rid of my frustrated feeling. But I don't think they were going to see the error of their ways so I went back to what I was doing with the frustrated feeling still present.

So what was a I doing I hear you ask?

A bank of fog was sliding in from the south, leaving the tips of the mountains poking through the sea of moisture. Unusually for an inversion, a layer of cloud lay above us too (me and the mountains) and gradually the temperature began to warm.

On another small dark pool I begun to lay out sections of frosted bracken, to make a pattern on the ice. When I leant back I noticed I had left hand prints where my body heat had melted the surface and I liked them and decided to do something along those lines instead. On all fours, I kneeled on the ice, positioning my hands to make prints in the surface, when suddenly cracks spread across the surface like fractured glass and I was about to become more acquainted with this medium than I originally planned. I had one of those Wiley Coyote moments like when he runs over the cliff's edge, only to be found pedalling in mid-air. Just for a split second gravity didn't grab me and then all at once the icey water and me, became intimate. I managed to extricate myself after immersing only one leg and fortunately I was wearing two pairs of trousers for warmth and had some spare socks, so pretty quickly I was dry again. I smirked to myself at being such a fool but soon found that the broken ice was fantastically clear and square edged so my foolishness had served a purpose and revealed to me the beauty of this ice.

I took a section and rounded the edges before trying to melt my hand print into it. I could only manage a little at a time before I had to rewarm my hand, so I challenged myself to count to fifty before I would put on a glove to warm up, only to try and melt some more for another count to fifty.

As the handprint begun to form I started to think about how I would be able to photograph it. The imprint was like a ghost, difficult to pin down, like a fleeting image in the corner of your eye. I put the ice back in the water but the image disappeared so I went searching for another way.

I found a slab with thick frost on it, so I melted another handprint onto it and placed the ice on top, in an effort to put a black background behind the imprint. This didn't work either. I then picked some holly berries thinking that I would squish them up and fill in the mould but that was also a failure. And then it dawned on me, bubbles underwater are very bright, especially against the dark, peaty water!

I went back to the little pool and to its twin with the unbroken ice. I put my handprint on top of it, face down so that air would be trapped and then started to ladle (I didn't actually use a ladle - who carries around a ladle?!) water from the broken pool onto the ice of the intact one. Soon the effect was working and I had learnt something new about contrast and ice.

After taking some more pictures of it set against the sky, I collected my gear and headed off downhill. The cretins were still shooting at anything that moved and the irritation at the noisy buggers still dwelled in the pit of my stomach.

At the bottom of the hill I sat and watched two Buzzards sitting in adjacent trees, one of which kept calling and flying to the other one, perhaps with spring on her mind. For a few minutes I watched transfixed and thought what magnificent creatures they are. As I set off again towards home I noticed that the feeling in my stomach had gone and a few quiet moments observing the wonder of nature had calmed and comforted me. That is all that is required for peace. An open mind and a moment to fill it. Perhaps the Saturday shotgunners should try it one day. They might actually like it and discover that there is another way.

A few days after our discovery of the explosion at the chemical processing plant, I float some twenty feet above the hectic goings on of life in downtown Denver, invisible, watching time slowly pass. Despite all that has happened during my time on Earth, I still feel as though I am an outcast. The residents of Earth accept me in all the same ways that they accept people like Superman. But I realise, observing them as they go about their taxing, monotonous lives, that despite everything I do, and everything I will do for this planet, I will always be the true foundling, the extraterrestrial. The man from Mars.

I will arrive to prevent a crime, and the people will say "thank you." But behind me, there will always be those whispers; the discrete glances around the shoulder to keep me in check. To ensure I'm staying in line.

For a species that has enough trouble accepting itself, I don't doubt for one minute that it doesn't have second thoughts about accepting me.

Despite my best efforts, those whispers will always be heard. Even at home on Mars, the way society worked was microcosmic to what occurs here, on Earth.

It may be that I'm just being hypocritical; that I refuse to acknowledge that I too have acted just like them, and that exclusion is just a way of life.

I suppose, in a way, that makes me more human than anything else does.

To some extent the true aliens of this planet will never fit in.

I pull myself from my thoughts and open my mind to the thoughts of the pedestrians below me, a skill I have come to master in these past months. The moment I begin, my mind is flooded with the thoughts of those around me:

My eyes flip open and I steadily float over to the source of the noise, but before I can make a move the noise dies down and a voice rings out through the air.

"Martian Manhunter! I'm looking for Martian Manhunter! Hello? Does anyone know where I can find Martian Manhunter?"

Amazed, I scan the area for the source of the voice, but my eyes soon do the job for me and discover who it is that is speaking.

In the middle of the street stands a fairly tall, well-built figure whom appears to be coated in some kind of rock that covers him from head to toe. Two beady red beacons shine out in the space that should be occupied by his eyes, and streaks of a burnt orange solution line his face in place of blemishes and wrinkles. As he steps forwards, the solution that hides in the cracks of his face appears in the exposed gaps of his rocky exoskeleton, seemingly taking up the place where one would find skin. As he approaches, I turn visible again and gently glide down to the street to face him.

The thing pauses, and we look at each other for a moment.

The figure opens what I presume to be his mouth, displaying a set of yellowed teeth, and begins to speak.

"There you are. I wanna talk to you."

There is a gravelled edge to his voice that makes it sound strained and tired, but underneath the distortion, I realise that I know that voice.

The red beacons widen as I speak, and his smile grows wider as he steps forwards.

"You do know who I am!"

I remain silent.

"I didn't think you would recognise me!"

"I'm not entirely sure I do, Michael."

"Haha, all will be explained. And please, Michael Miller is no more. Call me Human Flame."

I remain where I am stood with caution. I knew something did not feel right about him.

His grin subsides as he takes a step back.

"Just watch."

He takes a breath and flexes his arms, then out of nowhere his body ignites itself in a sea of bright orange flames.

I step back as his grin re-appears, but I do not share in his enjoyment.

Of course, during our encounter in the bank, he never did find out the true power of fire against a Martian.

He pulls his eyes from examining his arms and looks up.

"What?"

"Don't do this, not here at least. You're making the people anxious."

He looks around, but ignorantly holds out his hand and ignites a flame, in some kind of attempt to put on a show for them.

"No I'm not, see?"

A group of girls move back in caution, and a father picks up his daughter and begins to move away.

He looks around, then nods.

"Alright. Let's go."

I take Michael up to the hills just outside the city, the sight where I often bring M'gann to help her with flying practice. It's calm and isolated conditions are perfect for creating a work area of absolute focus where the mind can be at rest, away from the bustling noises of the city.

I doubt I am going to be treated to such a calming discussion today, however.

Michael looks around at the mountains, then positions himself next to a rock and looks at me.

"I've never been this far out of Denver before. It's amazing."

"That's good to hear. Now, tell me, because I'm having some slight difficulties piecing this together, what exactly is going on?"

He smiles.

"Where do I start?"

"The beginning would be preferable."

He laughs excitedly, then steps forwards to face me fully.

"Alright, alright. I guess I'll start right after we met. You remember that, right? The bank? Homemade hairdryer?"

I nod.

"I do."

"Well, after that, I guess I hit rock bottom. All my life I wanted to be someone, to do something people would remember me for. Now I had no talents. I couldn't sing, or act, and I sure as hell couldn't be a hero like you."

"So you decided to hold up a bank."

"Well, yeah, I guess. I made the flamethrower and pieced together that shitty suit and just decided, screw it, I may as well do something, right? And, we all know how well that ended up. But after you talked those cops into letting me off, I realised something. I realised, you don't need special powers to be a hero, or to make a difference. You just need the right mindset. You'd inspired me to make a change."

I am silent.

"So when I was released that night, that's when I decided to start a new life. A whole new me. I found that chemical plant outside the city, and decided I'd try and fix my gear, but-"

"So that was you."

"Oh, the explosion? Well, yeah I guess. It was an accident, but, that's not the point!"

I sigh.

"Go on."

"Before that happened, I had a massive come-down. Again. I thought I was being an idiot in trying to change. I tried to destroy my gear, but it caused this explosion, and when I came round...."

I nod.

"You were like this."

"U-huh. But I thought that was it. I'd become some kinda freak, a monster. I didn't know what the hell to do, so I ran off into the forest, and there... Well, that don't matter. What does matter is what happened next."

He looks around.

"I heard these gunshots from somewhere in the forest. Now, again, not knowing what the hell to do, I followed them, and found Oaksridge,"

"Oaksridge?"

"It's this little town in Roosevelt Forest. It's where I had my...what's it called? My epiphany."

"Your epiphany?"

"U-huh. Some guy in the town was trying to kill this other guy, and I stopped him. When I did, I realised I could do this-"

He goes to ignite himself again, but I raise my hand to stop him.

"Thank you, Michael, I get the picture. You were saying?"

"Oh right, yeah. So I save this guy, and suddenly the folks there are treating me like some sorta hero. Me! It was then I realised, I could do what you do. I could be the hero. I stayed in Oaksridge a few days, then decided to come find you, to tell you what had happened. After all, if it weren't for you stopping me back at the bank, who knows where we'd be now, right?"

I don't know what to say. It is clear Michael has found great excitement in what has happened to him, but I know better than anyone else that just because you can do something, it doesn't mean you should.

"Your body has gone through a momentous change, one you were lucky to survive from how it sounds, and you need to take time to adjust to those changes. I know how you feel. You have powers beyond your imagination and a burning passion to do good, but you need to prepare, to take time to get used to yourself. Rome wasn't built in a day."

"Then train me! Help me get used to it! I wanna be like you; help you!"

I don't tell him of my weakness. Training him would be impossible. His fire power may be too much for me to handle. His heart, however, does appear to be in a good enough place, one that might allow me to help him somewhere down the line, and if I can contain him, guide him, his abilities may not be as big a threat to me as first believed.

But then I face a dilemma.

I don't want to treat him like some experiment, or to try and subside his powers and treat him like an animal. He is, at the end of the day, still human.

He looks down at his feet, then steps back and nods.

"Alright. I get it."

There's a long pause, and I am tempted to enter his mind to find out what it is he's debating. I decided against it, however. This is something he needs to decide by himself.

"I know now. I know what I could do."

He begins to head down the hills and back towards the city, but turns at the last moment to face me with a smile.

"Thank you, Manhunter. Thank you for everything."

He begins to leave, but as he does I step forwards.

He smiles.

"Okay. J'onn."

Not losing the smile from his face, he turns back and begins to descend the hill, leaving me alone, looking out over the mountainous skyline on the horizon.

Amazingly in tact abandoned house in rural Ontario. From the outside this house looked like any other but inside was a gold mine of personal belongings. This was one of 4 bedrooms in the house with beds still made from the last time someone had resided here.

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Falling To Ones Death.

Defenseless nicht zu unterscheiden shrill predicament course,

dismayed μανιακός occasion of coming tomb,

zkroucený antics beneath thy gossiping streets,

unglücklich masquerade lead thee on blood drenched tracks,

puzzling danger a загадка below pulsating cracks,

Medea O'thy pýcha that thou robes,

unwahrheiten of endearments burning in knotted hearts,

bitter abhorrent self's acquired anger in šialenstvo furnace,

presumptuously still πυκνός yoke breaks backs,

tarnished rozrušený death accursed disgrace full force,

rancorous penetrabilior fire destiny of gloom,

proud cruel implacable дрхтање remorse peaks,

jealous cyclones of schatten blacken gestures axe,

miserable hypocrite's znechucen corpses still probes,

demoralizing falsch übersetzt questions stick as darts,

hot headedness rambling's чрезвычайно torments as sternness,

ravenous ungeziefer demon tricked thee 'tis a treacherous tax!

Steve.D.Hammond.

I've never really been into the Steampunk/Victorian thing.

I usually tend to avoid books, games

and whatever that feature that kind of a world.

However--His Dark Materials was awesome.

I loved all three books.

I read them all a long long long time ago.

And at the time I never really thought about it being Steampunky or anything.

Not sure if that phrase was even being used then.

Maybe it was.

But I know now that it was definitely

an alternate Victorian type fantasy world.

I also liked The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

And definitely loved A Series of Unfortunate Events--

though there was no magic

or fantasy really in those events.

I'd actually like to see a (new) film version

that has a darker horror like spin

on the misfortunes of the Baudelaires.

But it'll never happen I'm sure.

Oh--and damn it all--my beloved Bloodborne.

So --again--

The Hypocrite Is Me.

My friend Kaisar, four years junior then me, Honors Student of Pure Chemistry in Jogonnath University, Dhaka, Bangladesh. - A photographer with highly aggressive strength and a strong personality to keep on focusing subjects around....... Member of BPS (Bangladesh Photographic Society) and a photojournalist.

Meeting with him was dramatic, was by a funny way... another friend of me Ikbal was write about a person called Moon in his stream, if Kaiser knows him, using my account when i was log in flickr in Ikbal's studio, without let me notice... Kaiser become confused and send me mail for inquiry... it was like who searching who, and first it was sending flickr mail, then call by phone and confirm all misunderstanding.....

Relation with him wasn't close until a Bangladesh borned pathetic looser made a mistake,,, was said some untruth thing about Bangladesh and proved himself a hypocrite. I was the one claim on it at my most, didn't check my language, and the guy was delete both our conversation and the topic and were send mail to too many of his contact to block me, when he was a old user of flickr and for me it was less then 15 days i join flickr..................... Kaiser denied his request, and receive a block from him........ and we become closet friends instantly :):):)

and the only native flickr user with who I usually make some photo-walk, etc...... The only fear I have for or dislike of him is, he just afraid to touch a SLR... I doesn't mean dSLR:p, he thinks he can't use Film...... and still missing the test of most advanced technology of photography (not DArt) in human history.....

May Almighty give him superb skills and the earth and sun on his side to capture every unique moments he face while he in mood of Photography, Aamiin

Theda Tammas - Hypocrite's Crayon Gallery

En solidaridad con todos mis contactos censurados.

+ A todos los valientes censores vocacionales, que denuncian injustamente, tiran la piedra y esconden la mano, quedando en el anonimato. Protegidos por Flickr.

+ A todos los que por celos, envidia o resentimientos tratan de hundir al prójimo.

+ A todos los que odian el cuerpo humano.

+ A todos los nuevos guardianes de la "moral".

+ A todos los que no admiten otras ideas.

+ A todos los que no admiten críticas.

+ A todos los que sólo admiten el pensamiento único.

+ A todos los escribas y fariseos.

+ A todos los hipócritas, viajeros de páginas porno.

+ A todos los salvadores de la Humanidad.

+ A quien está más alto que el resto de los mortales.

+ A quien siente herida su exquisita sensibilidad con comentarios no halagadores.

+ A quien no sabe nada pero sabe todo.

+ A los que gozan haciendo daño a otros y no dan la cara.

+ A la mala gente, en general.

En los últimos días, después de mi censura, no paro de recibir correos de mis contactos, diciendo que le han hecho lo mismo, sin justificación ni explicación.

Flickr no te dice quién te denunció. Te manda a leer las reglas de la comunidad, pero el daño no lo reparan. ¡Viva la Democracia!

LA NUEVA CAZA DE BRUJAS HA COMENZADO.

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

In solidarity with all my censoured contacts.

+ To all those brave vocational censors, who unjustly denounce, throwing the stone and hiding their hand, maintaining anonymity. Protected by Flickr.

+ To all those who, through jealousy, envy or resentment, try to squash their neighbour.

+ To all those who hate the human body.

+ To all those new guardians of "morality".

+ To all those who do not admit other ideas.

+ To all those who do not admit criticism.

+ To all those who only admit one line of thought.

+ To all scribes and pharisees.

+ To all hypocrites, journeyers through pornographic pages.

+ To all saviours of Humanity.

+ To those who consider themselves on a higher plane to other mortals.

+ To those whose exquisite sensitivity is hurt by non-flattering comments.

+ To those who, knowing nothing, know everything.

+ To those who enjoy doing harm to others without showing their face.

+ To "bad seed" in general.

In these recent days since my censureship, I have had no end of comments from my contacts, saying that the same thing has happened to them, with no explanation or justification . Flickr does not let you know who denounced you. They tell you to read the rules of the community, but they do not redress the damage done. Long live Democracy!

THE NEW WITCH HUNT HAS COMMENCED.

Matthew 6:5-7

7 But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.

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

Broom maker (4)

Location : Guihungan ,Negros Oriental ,Philippines

He Entered Your World

I once waded into the Jordan River. On a trip to Israel, my family and I stopped to see the traditional spot of Jesus’ baptism. It’s a charming place. Sycamores cast their shadows. Birds chirp. The water invites. So I accepted the invitation and waded in to be baptized.

No one wanted to join me so I immersed myself. I declared my belief in Christ and sank so low in the water I could touch the river bottom. When I did, I felt a stick and pulled it out. Well, what do you know–a baptism memento! Some people get certificates or Bibles; I like my stick. It’s about as thick as your wrist, long as your forearm, and smooth as a baby’s behind. I keep it on my office credenza so I can show it to fear-filled people.

When they chronicle their anxieties about the economy or concern about their kids, I hand them the stick. I tell them how God muddied his feet in our world of diapers, death, digestion, and disease. How John told him to stay on the riverbank, but Jesus wouldn’t listen. How he came to earth for this very purpose, to become one of us. “Why, he might have touched this very stick,” I like to say.

As they smile, I ask, “Since he came this far to reach us, can’t we take our fears to him?”

“For our high priest [Jesus] is able to understand our weaknesses. When he lived on earth he was tempted in every way that we are, but he did not sin. Let us, then, feel very sure that we can come before God’s throne where there is grace. There we can receive mercy and grace to help us when we need it” (Hebrews 4:15-16 NCV).

Does this miracle matter? It does if you are bedridden. It does if you battle disease. It does if chronic pain is a part of your life. The One who hears your prayers understands your pain. He never shrugs or scoffs or dismisses physical struggle. He had a human body.

Does this miracle matter? If you ever wonder if God understands you, it does. If you ever wonder if God listens, it does. If you ever wonder if the Uncreated Creator can, in a million years, comprehend the life of a truck driver, housewife, or immigrant, then ponder long and hard the promise of the incarnation. God say: I understand you and I always will.

Are you troubled in spirit? He was, too. (John 12:27)

Are you so anxious that you could die? He was, too. (Matthew 26:38)

Are you overwhelmed with grief? He was, too. (John 11:35)

Have you ever prayed with loud cries and tears? He did, too. (Hebrews 5:7)

Some have pointed to the sinlessness of Jesus as evidence that he cannot fully understand us. After all, if he never sinned, they reason, how could he understand the full force of sin? Simple, he felt it more than we do. We give in! He never did. We surrender. He never did. He stood before the tsunami and never wavered. In that manner, he understands it more than anyone who ever lived.

And then, in his grandest deed, he volunteered to feel the consequence of sin.

“God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians 5:21 NIV).

The greatest pain of the cross was the pain of sin. Jesus didn’t deserve to feel the shame, but he felt it. He didn’t deserve the humiliation, but he experienced it. He had never sinned, yet was treated like a sinner. He became sin. All the guilt, remorse, and embarrassment– Jesus understands it.

Does this miracle matter? To the hypocrite, it does. To the person who can’t remember last night’s party it does. To the cheater, slanderer, gossip, or scoundrel who comes to God with a contrite spirit, it matters. It matters because they need to know, “we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need” (Hebrews 4:15-16 NIV).

Because Jesus is human, he understands you. Because he is divine he can help you. But he does neither if you don’t go to him. He didn’t remain aloof; why would we? He didn’t keep his distance; why would we keep ours?

Let this be the day you draw near to him. He entered your world so that you could enter his.

© Max Lucado, January, 2017

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

What You Needed Most

God is enough. Isn’t this the message of Moses and Joshua and the journey to the Promised Land? Who opened the Jordan River? Who led the people across on dry ground? Who appeared to encourage Joshua? Who brought down the Jericho walls? Who fought for and delivered the people? God!

He cared for his people. Even in the wilderness they never went without provision. He gave them not just food but clothing and good health. Moses once reminded the Hebrews, “Your clothes did not wear out and your feet did not swell during these forty years” (Deuteronomy 8:4 NIV).

The following phrases were never heard in the wilderness: Oh, bummer, my robe has another rip in it…or…. Hey, new sandals. Where did you get them? There was no want for food; no need for clothing. God provided for them. And God has promised to provide you.

From God is With You Every Day. Max Lucado

Theda Tammas - Hypocrite's Crayon Gallery

This photo needs to be viewed on anything other than Chrome or Internet Explorer (I am being a massive hypocrite and typing this on Chrome...) to see the colours POP! (Although even then, they're nothing like the original photo, silly Flickr).

Straight out of camera besides crop.

I doubt anyone would, but would anyone be interested in buying prints?

For me this shot is an attempt to come up with something slightly more unique than my conventional way of photographing long exposure waterfalls. I’ve been to this location, in the wonderfully named and spectacularly beautiful “Valley of Desolation”, many times over the years, but this time I wanted to change my approach in order to overcome the slight dissatisfaction from my previous efforts here. which have been either compositionally challenging, (there is an irritating holly bush at the top of this waterfall, that is hard to make work compositionally), or standing in the obvious place does give you good foreground interest, but makes it impossible to take more than one shot, as not surprisingly at the bottom of a waterfall the spray is a nightmare...Interestingly as a friend and I walked up the valley towards the waterfall, my apprehension became further compounded as I was also struggling with my own perceptions of what a waterfall offered in the way of subject originality and desperately wanted to find a new approach.

Now I tentatively make the following comment in the apprehension that it may sound a little arrogant and I honestly do not intend it to offend anybody, but as subjects I feel waterfalls are bordering on the fringes of cliché. Now this obviously doesn’t mean that they are, on the contrary I’ve seen many wonderfully emotive and powerful images of waterfalls that have taken my breath away, but maybe this abundance of quality in itself is part of the problem, as I seem to have become numb to obvious positive elements... It’s kind of like when you over play a favourite song, the track doesn't change, but your perception of it does with over listening. So as Wayne and I walked up the valley to the waterfall I was subconsciously struggling with my very own perception and felt a need to challenge and change it.

Now digressing a little to strengthen my position and to attempt to elevate your growing distaste to my slight arrogance, I sometimes feel the same way about images made at ‘famous’ photographic locations such as , Antelope Canyon, or Bamburgh Castle, or indeed subjects such as sunsets or long exposure coastal shots, (man I do sound like a hypocrite here). There still remains an oversaturated, (excuse the obvious play on words) ever so slightly putrid aftertaste from seeing too many. As I said before, this doesn’t mean that any of the shots are poor pieces of work, or indeed are not well composed and considered, but like the music analogy, you can only listen to a pop music for so long and at some point you end up wanting Nick Cave or PJ Harvey as your taste develops. Funny I have never become tired of ‘Guns and Roses, Appetite for Destruction’, anyway enough of that...

I think for a large part the oversaturation from photography magazines, personal blogs, social networking sites and massive influx of affordable good quality digital cameras, has produced thousands of images that only 20 years ago would have stood out and shone. Now the competition to be unique, to be fresh and dynamic is much harder especially if you choose a subject or location that have been done many times before, which I’m at paints to reveal I frequently do. I can’t help myself, I just love those locations.

This is why I must keep reminding myself to ‘try’ and avoid the obvious compositions in such subjects or places, as most importantly, there is a greater potential for personal development opportunities when the lean pickings of a location or subject are worked around and eventually found. But with heightened potential comes heightened vulnerability, as the images you make in those locations risk being perceived falling between the cliché and pretentiousness. Don’t worry I’m not advocating becoming a incongruent fine artist that takes shots of dog feces and pretentiously pins some social commentary to it in the hope that others will buy into the junkstaposition of meaninglessness, I’m just trying to challenge my assumptions to stimulate and develop my own vision, within my preferred subjects.

Anyway back to the photograph, this time I clambered up a slippery muddy slope, to the more or less inaccessible side of the waterfall and lodged myself into the thick of the ‘Lord Of The Rings’ type undergrowth. With my tripod firmly wedged in, saving me from slipping down into the pool of icy water and one side of my body wet with a mixture of mud and soggy leaves, I composed this shot with an attempt to gain as much depth and movement I could from the hanging windblown vegetation.

Funny as unpleasant as it is, I don’t feel like I’ve been working hard enough unless I come back with muddy or wet trousers, is this just me?

Mark 5:13 “He gave them leave; and the foul spirits came out and entered into the swine, and the herd—about 2,000 in number—rushed headlong down the cliff into the water and were drowned.”

FBI director: “The reality is that the terrorism threat has been elevated throughout 2023 but the ongoing war in the Middle East has raised the threat of an attack against Americans in the United States to a whole ‘nother level.”

Iran has had terrorist sleeper cells in the Unites States for a long time. Yet, the American government has never done anything about it…shocker! Open borders: letting in an army of enemies…what could go wrong? How many of you have a fence around your house? How many of you would leave your front door open and let anyone and everyone live in your house? Hypocrites!

The New World Order Hegelian Dialectic: Problem, Reaction, Solution.

They create the problem. Then the sheeple beg them to fix it (with the help of the mainstream media propaganda machine). So what will be the solution: more big government laws (more power and control)? Bigger spending? War? An excuse to push forward towards CBDCs and Digital IDs...we need a biometric digital ID system for the border…it sounds good until one day they clamp down on you leaving the country, and you find that you are a prisoner in your own soviet style country.

The FBI calls parents who speak out at school board meetings domestic terrorists (an authoritarian state must be the parent from cradle to grave)…in the end what will be their solution to this fake terrorist problem…soviet style gulags or nazi stlye concentration camps? It’s hard to tell what side of the fence these New World Order neo-commufacists will lean...they can always set up FEMA camps…hahaha.

“German Defense Minister Boris Pistorius has issued a stark warning to residents of Germany, urging them to come to terms with the possibility of war in Europe.”

When our way of living is ready to collapse…war is a great distraction.

I’ve been away for a bit; needed to recharge. I want to thank all my followers (many new ones lately) and the well over ½ million views.

I’m continuing my efforts exposing Gang Stalking, Community Stalking and Workplace Mobbing. Yosemite continues to rally is self-righteous hypocrites, simpletons and halfwits; to stalk, harass, workmob, discredit and defame. Like the Energizer Bunny, I keep going and going.

•The truth about Yosemite: www.nbcbayarea.com/news/local/Sexual-Harassment-Common-in...

Gang Stalking, Community Stalking and Workplace Mobbing are Psychological Torture. These illegal and immoral acts are carried out by residents and contractors, in Yosemite National Park every day; while Yosemite’s Superintendent and Law Enforcement look away.

The truth today is hidden so deep, it becomes gray.

Thank you for visiting my Photostream.

162/365

www.youtube.com/watch?v=SgqSI1BESVE

Duty, Honor, Country: Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you ought to be, what you can be, what you will be. They are your rallying points: to build courage when courage seems to fail; to regain faith when there seems to be little cause for faith; to create hope when hope becomes forlorn.

Unhappily, I possess neither that eloquence of diction, that poetry of imagination, nor that brilliance of metaphor to tell you all that they mean.

The unbelievers will say they are but words, but a slogan, but a flamboyant phrase. Every pedant, every demagogue, every cynic, every hypocrite, every troublemaker, and I am sorry to say, some others of an entirely different character, will try to downgrade them even to the extent of mockery and ridicule.

But these are some of the things they do. They build your basic character. They mold you for your future roles as the custodians of the nation's defense. They make you strong enough to know when you are weak, and brave enough to face yourself when you are afraid. They teach you to be proud and unbending in honest failure, but humble and gentle in success; not to substitute words for actions, not to seek the path of comfort, but to face the stress and spur of difficulty and challenge; to learn to stand up in the storm but to have compassion on those who fall; to master yourself before you seek to master others; to have a heart that is clean, a goal that is high; to learn to laugh, yet never forget how to weep; to reach into the future yet never neglect the past; to be serious yet never to take yourself too seriously; to be modest so that you will remember the simplicity of true greatness, the open mind of true wisdom, the meekness of true strength. They give you a temper of the will, a quality of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions, a freshness of the deep springs of life, a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity, of an appetite for adventure over love of ease. They create in your heart the sense of wonder, the unfailing hope of what next, and the joy and inspiration of life. They teach you in this way to be an officer and a gentleman.

---- General Douglas MacArthur

Seven Truths

- When I was little I used to go in my closet when I cried. It was dark and nobody could see me. It’s funny because I don’t go there anymore but I find that same secret place inside my mind as crazy as it sounds. Nobody can see it and I like it that way.

- I’d rather be known as the crazy church girl than the one nobody expected to be religious.

- I don’t feel that release in skating anymore. I haven’t been writing. I haven’t been taking pictures for myself. It’s like I’m purposely keeping everything held back. Then I go and become absorbed and obsessed with school. With getting good marks. With having teachers love me. Of course, when I mention how excited I am to do an upcoming essay I laughed when my friends made fun because really, who actually likes essays. But I’m noticing it. It scares me, it’s like I’m looking for a way out somewhere and every release I find becomes dangerous in some sense.

- My fear of those dark things hit a peak last weak. I felt a new type of fear…one I had never even imagined feeling. Me. The kid who writes like it’s her job can’t even find words to express this.

To anyone who is dealing with a fear that is controlling your life, that is making you do things you wouldn’t normally do, or just making you uncomfortable in your own skin just know that that fear has more power over you than the actual thing you are scared of. Fear is only an emotion. You can’t shut it off but you can control it.

(and the hypocrite of all time award goes to Hannah Martin)

- I have the most amazing friends. But I feel like god is playing some sick joke on me. Every single one of them is either destroying themselves slowly or destroying me. There are a few very important ones who I could never give up on because I see their strength through those weaknesses but the truth is sometimes I want to escape. I don’t want to help. I don’t want to watch them ignore me and hurt themselves worse. Sometimes I just want to stop and remember what it’s like to actually breathe again…

- Sometimes I get so frustrated with myself because I just wish ‘I’ would find myself beautiful. Sometimes I don’t even need other people to tell me. I don’t want it. In the end I’m not stuck with them, I’m stuck with me.

- I felt so good last week while I was in the hospital in sweats with no make up. I hate wearing face make up or too much of anything because I want to feel natural until I see all the girls at school. The gorgeous ones that I would die to look at. I know how much make up they wear, I know how I feel about that. Yet I just want to look like that and feel like they do and have other people look at me like that.

I hate it.

I don’t want to talk about these. I feel vain. And stupid. And immature. Starting this ‘project’ was easy. Everyone said I was so brave but I wasn’t. They were easy. Now though…I resent these truths. You have no many ideas how many times I start a seven truths and delete it all because it’s too hard or too personal.

But I hope you’re all well.

"Be careful what you wish for."

"Welcome to the Big Time, Sarah. I hope you enjoy your time in the sun."

btw... Thank you so much for dragging the rest of us along with you.

Can you tell that I'm loving being an Alaskan right now? : )

In all seriousness, her administration's done some good things for this State. I didn't vote for her in 2006, even though I was happy she won the primary, it was mostly because I just really, really didn't like Murkowski at all.

I posted this same shot of her back when I originally took this in August of 2006.

I was thinking about that shot on the drive home from work today as I listened to story after story about this situation. Figured I'd check it when I got home.

Yup. 7K+ hits, most all of them in the last six days or so.

Shocking! /sarcasm

All I really care about right now?

LEAVE HER KIDS (AND THEIR FRIENDS) ALONE.

Do I see the delicious irony in the fact that her daughter is pregnant and she advocates for abstinence only as a basis for sexual education? Well, duh.

Regardless of her mother's political policies/ideology, she's still entitled to be a child (and/or young adult). I can't repeat some of the horrid things I have read just tossed about about this seventeen year old and her boyfriend. Whom, I must admit from his myspace page, seems like a complete tool, but you know what? HE'S A KID TOO. We were all freaking tools as teenage boys. (Go on. Lie to yourself. We were.) Some of us made stupid mistakes. This guy makes one and his GF's mom gets picked for a Veep ticket and now he won't be able go to the local store or answer his freaking phone and has HIS every action and statement "vetted" and magnified? WTF?!?

I feel that somewhere between the mid to late 80's and today, the world just up and forgot that we are all human. We all have feelings and are all trying to make a life. Now everything and everyone seems to be fair game for everything.

LET ME BE CLEAR: I don't have a whole lot of sympathy for Sarah right now. She's in her 40's and a public figure. She's old enough and smart enough to know what awaited her once she accepted that nomination. Let the chips fall where they may for her. But her kids shouldn't be part of that reality. Every politician and public figure's kids shouldn't be. Sue me. It's what I believe.

And don't give me the "I'm being naive", or "it's Sarah's fault for dragging her kids through this" crap either. Use that for an excuse and we should all just go back to being knuckledraggers and be thrilled with the occasional fire. It's news worthy because people condone the salaciousness of the reporting. Because there are reporters who feel the need to get "in depth" with this sh!t.

She's human. Her daughter's human. Her daughter's boyfriend is human. If anything, this makes her a real human being with real problems just like the rest of our country deals with on a daily basis.

God forbid we ever have one of *those* in an office that matters. *gasp!*

PS: That last statement (well, this whole post, really) is not an endorsement of the McCain/Palin ticket. I am, and have always been, an UNDECLARED voter. That should not equate as apathy, for I do vote. Every single opportunity I have to. It's just that I am as disenchanted with our society (and its political processes) as I have ever been right now and this lack of reason and candor in all of this stuff, both liberal and conservative, well, it's just not helping me one iota.

PPS: God Bless The Internet. : )

EDIT 04 Sep 08:

If you'd like, you can read the full comment below. Thanks.

At times I just enjoy hanging out in the yard, catching a glimpse and an occasional photo of the native wintering birds. I love to watch them at my feeders. I have always found it interesting, if not quite hypocritical, that so many people are perfectly comfortable providing food for native birds, yet so many of these same individuals frown on providing sustenance for other wild animals in need. Mankind, indisputably the most invasive species, has wreaked havoc on innumerable animals throughout the world and history. We destroy and restrict extensive habitats, lay waste to hordes of prey animals, and yet we are reluctant to help sustain the remaining wildlife, for fear that we might change their natural ways. Well, we've already done that! While I certainly don't condone providing sustenance to wildlife in a way that puts that animal or the person doing it in mortal danger, I do believe that providing food, safe passage, and at times shelter, should be conscientiously pursued rather than dissuaded. We have a long way to go to make up for the damage for which we are responsible. I suspect there are many misguided souls who would argue against this point. For now I will enjoy the simple pleasures that nature offers, like this Tufted Titmouse perched on a branch, and reserve that conversation for another time. #iLoveNature #iLoveWildlife #WildlifePhotography in #NewJersey #Nature in #NorthAmerica #TuftedTitmouse #Birds #DrDADBooks #Canon #WildlifeConservation

from Jubilate Agno

BY CHRISTOPHER SMART

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.

For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.

For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.

For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.

For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.

For he rolls upon prank to work it in.

For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.

For this he performs in ten degrees.

For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.

For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.

For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.

For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.

For fifthly he washes himself.

For sixthly he rolls upon wash.

For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.

For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.

For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.

For tenthly he goes in quest of food.

For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour.

For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.

For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.

For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.

For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.

For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.

For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.

For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.

For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.

For he is of the tribe of Tiger.

For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.

For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.

For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.

For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.

For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.

For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.

For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.

For every family had one cat at least in the bag.

For the English Cats are the best in Europe.

For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.

For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.

For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.

For he is tenacious of his point.

For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.

For he knows that God is his Saviour.

For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.

For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.

For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually—Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.

For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.

For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.

For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.

For he is docile and can learn certain things.

For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.

For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.

For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.

For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.

For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom.

For he can catch the cork and toss it again.

For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.

For the former is afraid of detection.

For the latter refuses the charge.

For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.

For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.

For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.

For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.

For his ears are so acute that they sting again.

For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.

For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.

For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.

For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.

For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.

For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.

For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.

For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.

For he can swim for life.

For he can creep.

Mr. politicians, these girls give "thanks" to you for his speeches hypocrites.

www.abaimagen.com

Rhythm of Line GLEITZEIT ESSAY BY ELLEN YUSTAS K GOTTLIEB CIRCA 1995 New York City

In Early period Jaisini has more meaning manipulation creating concept of visual line’s enclosure in unison with logical line.

Movement in the space and constructed thinking process together seem to come to a deceptive simplicity of continuous line.

In reality the artist works in complicated manner of multiple approaches that has multi personalities united in one through a fight.

Was line predetermined in her movement?

But it is technically immediate, imaginative, and not prepared.

In accordance to the artist’s own assumptions, his line matures in his mind for long period of time before he could release it on the canvas together with the painting’s unique plot.

The plot of the picture’s characters usually serves purpose of mixing the originality of beauty with simple decorative purpose of line interlacing and sometimes it brings images in most unexpected connections, mixing such themes as classical music with semi erotic depictions where aesthetic flare of creative fertilization is deeply connected to erotic display of mastery, a dialectical incentive of creation.

Mixtures of refine eroticism and ultimately conservative in appearance subject of classical musicians brings the theme to unexpected prominence.

In paintings subject is not ever explicit or hidden too deeply between the lines to be hypocritically implied, to the opposite the artist sets his ideas in perfect harmony.

Jaisini tends to perfect all angles of his creation to the level of condition with constant curiosity about his art.

If you had learned the meaning you would start to see more of its visual technique.

Then it could start to change the meaning.

The process of growing together with Jaisini’s artworks is unlimited.

Just when you thought that you have grasped the capricious creation it starts to run away from you again.

And this is exactly what Jaisini stage in his art, the game that never ends and develops into new game.

Music is a particularly relevant aspect of Jaisini’s inspiration as a part of the artist’s daily life.

The connection of art images and subjects is not straightforward but still in many ways is connected to music sensitivity.

with film on black

Say hello to my Nikon FM.

My dad bought me this lovely simple wind on just over a year ago and I love it! There's no digital screen, no complicated menu's, no buttons. It weighs next to nothing yet built like a tank. And best of all?.....

It takes film! :)

Now I know you might all call me a hypocrite as I've just bought a new camera and I wont lie to you, digital is convenient and cheap BUT I still personally prefer film.

The quality just still has the edge in my personal opinion. The grain! The texture!

It's just so romantic. Taking a 36 exp roll and waiting to get it developed, did it work? How did they come out? Oh the excitement of not knowing!

There's just something about it, it looks so real, like you were there, like you could touch it, almost as if you could smell that place your looking at through the print.

When I studied photography I was taught on black and white film. I had to develop all my own negatives and photos in a dark room and I tell you what if you haven't experienced a photograph develop in front of your very own eyes you are truly missing out. Its so amazing watching an image slowly appear in the developer. There's no feeling like it. And the smell! Ohhh the smell, it stinks! I remember coming out of the dark room and people would be like Arr yuck you stink man! :) he he. Yeaah I did.

I really miss the excitement and romance of it all so I have decided to make sure I use this little feller more often this year.

I really hope film continues for many many many years to come. I think its a revolution in the way we view the world today. It helps us express ourselves and as Ansel Adams said,

''A great photograph is one that fully expresses what one feels, in the deepest sense, about what is being photographed''.

He also said...

''No man has the right to dictate what other men should perceive, create or produce, but all should be encouraged to reveal themselves, their perceptions and emotions, and to build confidence in the creative spirit''.

Amen to that.

So here's to film, Ansel Adams and many years with my FM.

So thanks pa for this wonderful gift..I'll treasure it forever.

P.S Thanks to James for letting me use his soft box and holding it up while I got the shot right :)

Ash Wednesday

Shrine's flood light was very bright so I manually moved camera's setting to negative 2, which produced what you see. Hope you received inspiration and wisdom as you discern that ultimate question. Thanks for visiting etc. Let us pray we all meet in Paradise later!

Scripture from today's Liturgy of the Word:

Joel 2:12-18

Psalm 51:3-4, 5-6ab, 12-13, 14 and 17

2 Corinthians 5:20—6:2

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-18

A reflection on today's Sacred Scripture:

When you pray, go to your inner room, close the door, and pray to your Father in secret. (Matthew 6:6)

Ash Wednesday allows us to practice what Jesus taught as we observe this first day of Lent. We fast and receive God's blessing with ashes on our foreheads to express our sorrow for offending Him. Today's Gospel reading invites us to do this with sincerity, asking our Father for forgiveness openly and honestly, but from the inner rooms of our hearts.

When Jesus taught His disciples how to fast, pray and practice good deeds in a manner most pleasing to our Father, He said they shouldn't act like the hypocrites who made sure others saw them, so as to win their praise. The hypocrites received the praise they pined for, but that was it for them, Jesus warned, "They have received their reward."

When the praise of man is our only incentive to do good, then the praise of man is all we'll get. On the other hand, if our acts are done from the heart with the intent that only our Father see them, a most excellent reward comes to us, "and your Father who sees in secret will repay you." What we receive from delighting our Father is lasting. Our recompense begins immediately with His grace and continues on for eternity—what could be better?

Not everyone can distinguish sincerity, but our Heavenly Father sees everything. Let us humbly speak with faith to the One who knows of our hunger, hears our every prayer, sees our every deed, forgives us of everything and rewards us greatly.

- Elizabeth A. Tichvon | elizabethtichvon@comcast.net

EXPLORE # 362 on Thursday, February 7, 2008

www.holyspiritspeaks.org/news/the-hypocritical-ccp-instig...

Since coming to power, the CCP has never stopped persecuting religious belief. Especially since Xi Jinping has taken office, religious persecution, and in particular, the suppression of Christianity, has escalated to new heights today. The unscrupulous suppression, arrests, and persecution have not only been carried out against house church Christians. Even officially-run Three-Self churches and crosses have been demolished in large numbers. Christians have been arrested, sentenced, and jailed in large numbers, and some have even been beaten to death. Countless Christians have had to flee their homes to avoid the CCP’s arrest, unable to return, and many Christians have been persecuted so severely that they have no choice but to flee to democratic nations to seek asylum. Yet the evil CCP is hardly content to allow these Christians to escape. The CCP not only uses diplomatic and economic means to put pressure on these democratic nations, it also trains and embeds large numbers of special agents to work in these countries and monitor Christians, with the goal of extraditing these escaped Christians to China by every possible way. In September of 2018, for example, an incident occurred in South Korea targeted at threatening these Christian refugees. A Korean woman led over ten family members of escaped Chinese Christians living in Korea, in a demonstration, in which she claimed that the Christian asylum seekers of The Church of Almighty God (CAG) in South Korea were “false refugees,” and demanded that the Korean government repatriate them to China. The demonstration proved immediately controversial. But, the demonstration poses a question: Why would a South Korean citizen, living long-term in South Korea, lead more than ten relatives of Christians, of Chinese nationality, in such a demonstration? She was entirely unfamiliar with these Christians’ family members, and didn’t know the background of the CCP’s persecution of Christians, so why would she organize the relatives of these Chinese Christians to conduct such a demonstration in South Korea? Why did she claim that these CAG Christians fled to Korea were false refugees and demand that the South Korean government repatriate them? It truly is a puzzling situation. What hidden factors were behind this demonstration? On today’s program, our guests are two Christians from The Church of Almighty God whose Chinese family members took part in the demonstration. Today’s topic will be a discussion of the events surrounding the demonstration.

Reported by correspondent Zheng Guangming

Recommended for You:Christian Documentary

Image Source: The Church of Almighty God

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www.holyspiritspeaks.org/videos/city-will-be-overthrown-m...

Introduction

It is recorded in the Bible that the Lord Jesus condemned the Pharisees with the seven woes. Nowadays, the path walked by the pastors and elders of the religious world is that of the Pharisees and they similarly suffer God's detestation and rejection. So why did the Lord Jesus condemn and curse the Pharisees? It was primarily because they had a hypocritical essence that defied God, because they only paid attention to performing religious rituals and keeping rules, they only explained the rules and doctrines in the Bible and did not put God's words into practice or follow God's commandments whatsoever, and they even discarded God's commandments. Everything they did completely ran counter to God's will and requirements. This was the hypocritical essence of the Pharisees and it was the primary reason for the Lord Jesus hating and cursing them.

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“The time of a man's life is as a point; the substance of it ever flowing, the sense obscure; and the whole composition of the body tending to corruption. His soul is restless, fortune uncertain, and fame doubtful; to be brief, as a stream so are all things belonging to the body; as a dream, or as a smoke, so are all that belong unto the soul. Our life is a warfare, and a mere pilgrimage. Fame after life is no better than oblivion. What is it then that will adhere and follow? Only one thing, philosophy. And philosophy doth consist in this, for a man to preserve that spirit which is within him, from all manner of contumelies and injuries, and above all pains or pleasures; never to do anything either rashly, or feignedly, or hypocritically: only to depend from himself, and his own proper actions: all things that happen unto him to embrace contentendly, as coming from Him from whom he himself also came; and above all things, with all meekness and a calm cheerfulness, to expect death, as being nothing else but the resolution of those elements, of which every creature is composed. And if the elements themselves suffer nothing by their perpetual conversion of one into another, that dissolution, and alteration, which is so common unto all, why should it be feared by any? Is not this according to nature? But nothing that is according to nature can be evil.” Marcus Aurelius

Well, I reckon more than a few Scots said "Cheers!" and raised a pint of Tennents when the SNP Sweetheart Stout, Nicola Sturgeon, resigned earlier this week. Do you remember her slagging off the dreaded Tories when they refused to call a General election when first Theresa May resigned, then Boris and finally Liz Truss. Then when Alex Salmond resigned (because she/Sturgeon stitched him up in court) , and then she herself resigned...no general election in Scotland. Always a hypocrite. In a recent poll 96% of the Scottish public thought she should go. She failed at pretty well everything. Worse NHS, worse Policing, worse education, worse drug deaths (3 times worse than next worst country), worse life expectancy amidst skullduggery, lies and corruption. She blamed the English parliament and Tories for everything whilst she let everything in Scotland go to ruin. In fact her list of failures was so long that she needed 18 minutes in her resignation speech to mention most of them, whereas Boris, May, Truss only took 5-6 minutes on each of theirs. Now the SNP is looking (trying to fix her replacement) whilst in particular slagging off a publicly favoured candidate Kate Forbes because she stood up for her religious beliefs. Being of the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland they have strong Christian values which are largely mirrored in all other major religions: Muslim, Judaism, Buddhism, etc. She's a good girl, from my part of the world, from the highlands and islands of Scotland, where kids are still taught respect and decency. But actually, if I could vote and I can't as I'm not an SNP member, I favour Ash Regan/Denham, another principled and decent lady who I hope can steer Scotland in a better direction, away from the hatred, division and failure caused by Sturgeon's grievance politics. Unfortunately the hot favourite to win the race to be First Minister is a proven loser. Humza: and not that Humza, the Strictly Come Dancing winner from Ardnamurchan

October 31 305 / 366

My father died on this day, 15 years ago. He loved Halloween, he would drive us around (only "good" neighborhoods), and let us off at the beginning of a block and slowly follow us in the car until the end of every block. He would sit in the car, munching half our loot and keeping a careful eye out for us. He did this, even though his day started at 5 am. I would half wake up, and hear him get up every morning, use the bathroom and quietly make his way down the stairs. He owned a successful bread bakery. He was a master baker and made about 12 varieties of hand-shaped French, Sicilian, Ring, Braided and Sandwich breads and rolls, many of which, even in my travels, I have never found again. He would come back at about 10 am in his bakery whites, with a warm loaf of bread and have breakfast with my Mom and whoever was lucky enough to either be young enough not to be in school yet or home "sick". My mom would make fried eggs for him and he would let you break his yolks with your toast and never insist that you eat the whites.

I remember being at school and mid-morning would come and I would be thinking of them at home, having breakfast and laughing and talking, the sun streaming into the kitchen through my mother's perfectly starched, swiss dot curtains. I still like to eat breakfast at that more civilized time.

My father was a good man who provided well for his family with hard work and honesty. He loved my Mom, his kids, opera music and books and movies on World War I and II. He had a great sense of humor, could not stand hypocrites and could come up with a perfect nickname for anyone within 15 minutes of meeting them. He taught me to be strong, honest and get up every morning and do whatever has to be done.

To this day, I wake up at 5 am every morning. Sometimes, half asleep, I think I hear him tiptoeing down the stairs. I say a prayer of thanksgiving for him and often go right back to sleep, having a better sleep than I had all night.

I miss you Dad and look forward to seeing you in heaven one day. xx

++++++

All Hallows' Eve is not a liturgical feast on the Catholic calendar, but the celebration has deep ties to the Liturgical Year. These three consecutive days: All Hallow's Eve All Saints Day and All Souls Day, illustrate the Communion of Saints. The Church Militant (those of us on earth, striving to get to heaven) pray for the Church Suffering (those souls in Purgatory) especially on All Souls Day and the month of November. We also rejoice and honor the Church Triumphant (the saints, canonized and uncanonized) in heaven. We also ask the Saints to intercede for us, and for the souls in Purgatory.

*Surprise! Halloween is not a pagan holiday. In England, saints or holy people were called "hallowed," hence the name "All Hallow's Day." The evening, or "e'en" before the feast, which required fasting and penitence became popularly known as "All Hallows' Eve" or even shorter, "Hallowe'en."

Not spooky at all to... View On Black

You surround yourself with statues of Saints

Spending Sunday in pews, an image to paint

Hypocrite, afraid of the man you did spawn

A son in turmoil, kicked out on your lawn

The boy you have raised while fermenting in wine

Did you really think he would turn out fine?

Say your prayers cold old woman, say your prayers tonight

Pray the Lord, whom you answer to, lets you see that bright light

As when ashes meet ashes, and dust blends to dust

Say your prayers cold old woman, that the Lord you can trust

...Does not send you to hell.

Poem by: Claudia Cocco

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Gentle movement, elegant gesture, and nice color. Don't be misled by its look, the bird was actually pooing! I got this shot at Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.

"Unzeitgemäße Zeitgenossen” ("Untimely Contemporaries"), by Bernd Göbel. Five caricatures on a bar on a pillar representing hypocritical Communist East Germany figures.

114

I am a hypocrite.

trees will make a forest

trees will make a bow

these are all the harder

words you have to know

if everyone's a structure

where their own savior sits

they tied her up and laid her on the train tracks

listen?

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