As the court began to question Thaddeus, Mateo began questioning Dramien.

"You're sure he's not, just another kid? I'm done losing any more younglings who don't even know what we're fighting for."

 

Dramien sighed, " He's unlike anyone you've met, Mateo. Thay boy says he came from an alternate universe, one where the dragons reigned, and men had settled their differences with them, and the orcs barley existed...I think he may know more than he shows."

 

Mateo rolled his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. "Fine, but if you want my rebels to help you, make sure this boy knows what he's in for. If orcs barely existed in his home, he'll be scared silly to see their populations here…"

“The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day.

 

—"Old Man's Advice to Youth: 'Never Lose a Holy Curiosity.'" LIFE Magazine (2 May 1955) p. 64”

― Albert Einstein

This is JJ by the back door asking if we can please go out so I can throw his tennis ball for him... and of course, we went out and I did... he is not spoiled or anything like that...

And with advance to REALITY COPY there’s certainly no way of changing this perception only enforcing it, nothing in reality is good enough for “REALITY COPY” that is just another paradox that is not futuristic.

We might be still skeptical about the arrival of REALITY COPY, but its only before its sold at the supermarkets.

What would happen after “Reality Copy” when the progress of all possible levels of true “reality copy” (in technical sense, not psychologically-philosophical) are achieved. The reality hence is copied and sealed.

Technology won’t stop there… one wonders. What is next.

In political sense when reality in representation is something embraced by conservative social power than with “reality copy” the conservative power is the dominating from the social point of view having new level of reality and it’s copy to be controlled.

*seems like the only possibly alternative to REALITY COPY could be ultra radical Invisibility)

In principle the artist aims to deform the reality subjectively to create not the “reality copy” lacking such skills but to convey the artistic poetic goal of expressing whatever given artist wants to express.

In a matter of “reality copy” what is left for the artist to argue with and deform… to question and test… Nothing really changes socially except for more pressure applied to the issue of dealing with self-image and tools to “sell” When a person changes the image the higher the technology the more transformed is the final product.

The progress of mental growth is just as conservative as control on the “visual image of reality” and its copy.

The ongoing technological progress is irreversible as it carries percent of good with bad,

It is common knowledge how for instance internet is benefit and at the same time does damage. A person who knows about the addiction and suffers would acquire the knowledge and hope from the place the person suffers the internet of course.

Same thing is with photography and video. Reality copy would add more psychological problems to the present but create more visual attraction of true-life experience with whatever could be rediscovered in Lifecopy style. Probably is benefits pornography since it will continue same as consumption of food. The basic things… Consumerism benefits since it is super-trained for “instant reach” affect and will commercially exploit the “reality copy” to sell more of “reality copy” gadgets the phones, screens, etc.

New generation of people will repeat the cycle in new technological means of having “reality copy” as nothing new but similar to any visual information currently available.

The creative people are the ones BEHIND the time it seems in a matter of “reality copy” and being unable to have anything is an alternative.

The Invisible alternative is the ONLY ONE to question “reality copy”

That is the power of UNKNOWN.

Techno progress can deal in “reality” bringing higher resolution to the fore to sell new generation of phones and gadgets.

But it really doesn’t change the philosophical issue of questions asked by philosophers, what is life, what is art, why do we live. Questions remain unanswered when techno progress veils those questions with the promise that higher technology would bring the end to all unanswered questions and answer them for people.

So far the techno advance puts the artistic, literary and philosophical field out of business. As when people get the toys (gadgets) and the playground (the podium of internet) the art is irrelevant and completely disconnected from the social phenomenon of self-representation. Art is not interested to question something with no philosophical substance to it.

The commercial art is willing to supply more stuff for consumerism. If its reality-copy than someone empowered by financial wealth (born rich) would come up with more decorative solutions that could serve REALITY COPY in needed fashion, add more details to the “reality set” to those who can afford it.

Same way it is now when people with means live with more things.

“Reality Copy” of people without means would look just as it is in reality, gray and unexciting. To help people without means the software would offer “decoration” solutions to add the faux details able to transform the surroundings to less depressing. It would enter the person into “life copy” of vacation at Caribbean resorts… etc.

What in such situation could be philosophically questioned, if nothing changed in human morality, but techno advance manage to involve people into self-entertainment to such degree that a person is no longer interested to read books about other people or watch movies and hear news. Self-promotion is the ongoing and time-consuming thing. One has to research the “popular” topics.

As to participating in reality activities, there’s the issue of not having time for anything that doesn’t deal with self-promotion and earning a living.

ART commerce is growing commercially going Industrial since supplying consumer goods is always rewarding in sales. On the other hand this and techno revolution reduces interest of writers and philosophers to dig in depths where there is no depth. It makes such people disengaged with the process. When there are no critical voices to the established situation or some few art critics pretend to do what is expected of them – know about current situation not only on the art scene but at large - socially, and have strong voice against the trends that contribute to the lowering of culture. There’s no more liberal freedom since nobody reads the newspapers. Even if the working critics were principal enough to write articles and books they know their voice would not be heard. They are not vociferous about anything at all because there’s a concept of supporting and art endavour since art is in decline and anything that relates to art needs their support.

There are no voices to oppose the current situation for many reasons such as no younger people would be interested in such undertaking also for many reasons of being disoriented in expectation of techno changes or living their me-life.

The young ones are the invisibility movers, every day someone who is young, information and internet savvy adds the invisibility statement to their online identity. I saw it on tumblr and Iheart. (samples year web address – source)

Art consumer goods sell and make the seller get the goods since sale is the rule.

Art critics silently agree and actually it seems if they even try to disagree there is nothing in art that presently shows any direction against the established art situation.

There isn’t anything not saying a serious claim to deny aesthetic values of the art present and past, to turn away from any influence and history by the fashion avant-garde to question than resuscitate (bring back from death) art that lost vitality and practically is a dead art of dominating taste in an authoritarian culture and conformity.

Bring new blood to reinvent the art into weapon against the outlived old and positioning itself as direct opposition AGAINST art that represents culture of the present time.

Culture of consumerism that turned into visual consumerism with the help of internet is hard to oppose and challenge in any attempt of making bid public art spectacle, won’t challenge any concept but serve certain need for entertainment.

 

Invisible art of Paul Jaisini stands against all that is dominating and culturally regressive in the present, false visual multiplicity that imply democracy and absence of segregation in visual sphere, all inclusiveness.

On so many levels Paul Jaisini brings knowledge of how the present condition reflect on a mind. (non-linear thinking, information processing, constant analysis is the advanced state of high analytical creative mind /osd, adad is the side effect but there are more worse side effects) Shows the burst to create in manifestation of genius mind (can do any task without training) but unable to maintain the creative process as wholesome, bored with the immediate results. Invisibility is theoretical stability and result of high impact activity that gives fast result of creativity and genius realized in art. Then instability in the fact of the created art un--preserved and lost, destroyed.

On a lower level of people who start building some blog with enthusiasm dedicating time, research than abandoning it to become digital graveyard demonstrates inability to continue and search for new. Inability to face what yesterday seemed interesting and capture someone’s mind to give the creative boost.

(fast life, no sleep, high tech knowledge, constant search for new, unsatisfied… new is old – altogether supports “CONSUMERISM” when buying is haul more than physically needed, quantity is the need for new.

Invisible art as a concept seem to attract wide public and elite in such diametrically opposed combination, of people without high aesthetics in mind or the complete opposite illuminati-culturati. People with average or below average taste and aesthetic requirements are as interested and supportive as the elite. When it comes to someone in the middle- another phenomena, quite often those who are educated and intelligent take a stand against even one mention of the art being possibly somehow invisible.

These people respond very well and willing to agree with the concept as Invisible art is brought to them by mass media. In the beginning I was using internet to send out essays and saw the proof that as avant-garde wanted to reach people who never acquired artistically developed taste the invisible art was and now is more than ever suits their taste even to degree of obsession.

That’s adds insult to injury when nobody even pay attention and there’s nothing to offer as the alternative.

They want something tangible as the alternative, the grown philosophy to brew in the minds of people and artists as the sign of time.

The invisibility is the idea that has the power to antagonize the “reality copy” but not in a sense that is widely used in the present time. To express social isolation in case of the teens as seen on tumblr. (examples and variations of Invisibility trend in primitive pictures shared every day in such huge quantities no art publication ever knew, teens and pre-teens are those with passion among the rest of us, when they spread the word it goes far, same as the early internet time, when the word would go far distances to large number of people)

Historically known of the episodes when many artists tried to create the so-called invis art but it really didn’t involve much creativity except for the concepts they came up with, but in reality it involved the reduction of visual means and performance art when the audience came up with more ideas acting around the non-existent artwork than the artist.

Personally I discovered high interactive value of the “PRESUMED” invisible painting when I was getting a lot of responses with very interesting commentaries from the people who actually insisted I was sending them info about the invisible artworks. I never made any claims when sending written essays. People decided for me and probably this is the best way for the interactive dialogue to let people decide.

The only known versions of invisible artworks would be not something that can turn into a philosophical school of thought but random reductions of visual means of various artists. It all came to same MOA that involved frames etc., not the process of creativity or life long creativity that would show how such artistic philosophy develops and what various periods of the artist’s life produce by his belief in his artistic style.

The known precedents of exhibiting so-called invisible art were always random statements that never continued to develop in a distinct style.

What one usually expects is a blank canvas, a picture with some written ideas which is more a topography art, a picture that is in a wrapping of covered up and is a found object art. The only known artists who continued wrapping is Christo but his art is not considered invisible even though he hides or attempts to hide what is inside the wrapping….

Recently same as in more distant periods in time many artists are trying to reduce their visual means. There’s a difference though. In previous times artists ventured into reduction of visual means with more ease. The artworks from older times with reduced visual means had much less labor and look less worked on.

Now the reduction of visual means is something that doesn’t fall under the artistic philosophy when an artists trying to prevent an overkill of the visual imagery.

If Rothko worked on his abstract painting laboriously than in current standards his work would be considered not sale’s worthy. Now to be sale-worthy the abstraction is worked to show a lot of workmanship. Surely Rothko doesn’t want anyone to see a lot of workmanship quite the opposite, he wanted his paintings to look fresh and not overdone. And in current standards he would have to toil on every dot in his painting to perfect it.

Today’s abstract paintings look like very hard-worked on simulations of surfaces that look like some textures (varieties of plain or distressed surfaces /stone and whatever is the decorative surfaces of abstracts, patterns that are used in interior design.

Overworked, machine-like is expensive looking enough to sell in the gallery but it creates a certain amount of fatigue in time. The commerce knows about it, the fatigue would bring the art buyer to buy more to add some new life to the art collection ed infinitum.

Art commerce wants more art collectors in the times when art is selling and makes money and should be called what it is – decorative luxury items.

Art or luxury decorative items was always meant for people with wealth and they always wanted to get their money worth.

When abstract painting is done in a manner to be worthy of selling price it is not creativity of conceptual thought and has no abstracted meaning. The craft of simulating surfaces is widely known and is used in interior design. When it is unique that no other craftsman can repeat it is recognized nearly as jewelry and rag-making, etc. All the items that cost money due to the high workmanship and hours, months and sometimes years of creation. Same way was built the historical hand-made furniture. Same way the current abstract decorations will hold in time. It is made for someone as rich as royalties but it doesn’t mean that it has anything to do with artistic creativity, the most mysterious and unexplained human phenomenon.

So anyone who is interested to earn money as a maker of such luxury items and be able to place them in the store for sale – the art gallery, can come up with own recipe for surface replica and start working will find a paying job on the art scene nowadays...

It doesn’t involve questioning of morals, times and life. It involves many hours of working and ability to produce varieties of the same surfaces in good taste. Instead of questioning human spirituality, or questioning art means that someone considers irrelevant and outdated, not for any breakthrough to create something revolutionary new.

âStep into your dream Annaâ beckoned the dream pusher. Anna rubbed her weary eyes before questioning âWill there be unicorns? I wonât go unless there are unicornsâ. âBe carefulâ cautioned the dream pusher âotherwise your wishes might come trueâ. A smile cracked over his face and he held his out outâ¦.

 

Models : Anna Volpi, Apollo Garcia and Julien Nguyen Dinh

Photography Assistants : Anni Maarit, William Lounsbury and Caspar Miskin

Photography : Alexander J.E. Bradley

 

Tumblr - Twitter - 500px - Flickr - Facebook

I just want to be someone, to mean something to anyone…

― Charlotte Eriksson

(2) SMGO

If realistic pictures of great execution were described as paintings that only luck voice, the superflowing plastic Gleitzeit painting only luck the tune.

The attempt to communicate visual art through speech is a continuation of an art experiment that started as long ago in ancient Egypt, in archaic Greece, in medieval art where scrolls come out of the mouths from figures to show what they were saying.

When Jaisini paints straight on canvas without preliminary sketch he is close to a transitory moment of creation that becomes an apogee of human effort when an artist doesn’t premeditate art but pushed himself to make future visible not yet existing in any other form or ready sketch.

The artist’s mind is a container of his picture’s idea.

At this moment of art making many factors contribute to the execution of the painting. Questioning this many times anyone will hardly get the final answer because of the nature of inquiry to explain the moment of high inspiration. How a man could paint complex paintings that allow endless topics to write about? Meanwhile Jaisini paints in short time duration of few hours bringing out something never seen before and of immediate production, not the result of prepared studies and sketches.

Watching Jaisini speaking I try to see anything that could connect to his art.

Language of gestures and words could explain the artist’s language of color and imagery. Jaisini seems to be tense and relaxed simultaneously.

His human condition overcomes regular norms of life. He is instantly analytical and frivolous and like a great actor doesn’t need a mask or a make-up to enforce his transition in a role. For him paintings are like roles where he can explore ambiguities through faces of the images and linear plastic. A skillful master he in fact never contributed time to polish his skills.

The mastery comes from another source. The freshness of his approach maybe explained by the authentic method and refusal to overdo or over practice that often is an enemy of creativity substituting productivity for inspiration. An artist who is a mass producer of his one discovery is not an artist but a craftsman manufacturing artifacts automatically. Jaisini had never repeated himself in predictable way. The artist pointed out that he can’t repeat any of his painting when he might even intent to adding that it is too complicated and impossible to remember the way it was once painted, the layer of colors, the spontaneity of the line is unattainable for repetition.

I was interested to create a connection with thoughts and visual subjects of complexity because of their strong potential to communicate.

Communication with these paintings has resulted in desire to write and even to start a new art of imagination.

I think that Jaisini’s entanglement of lines and thoughts, colors and images had trapped me. The plasticity of line is something programmed to catch the attention. When you think that you just caught the line it runs away as flirtatious suitor. The plastic configuration of line that allures you with superflowing outlines is as potent in words and in vision as for instance a succulent fruit, a seductive nude, and aroma of flowers. The plasticity invites you to puzzle out hidden content as if it was a personal secret.

You might not stop even if it takes time as in my case after my curiosity was never satisfied with finding explanation.

First I wanted to see the pictures and with time I was seeing in them more and more. But when I tried to establish meaning of the paintings the things I saw were changing. With time I returned to the stage of pure seeing but it was not the same as if I was already a different person. Apparently the mind is so avid to learn and find meanings that it will go on searching and integrating as if it is hungering for new all the time ready to devour new food for mind and uncover mysteries. Based on cognitive psychology people perceive reality and think through clusters of meanings. The style of Jaisini is based on creation of such clusters with information for the eye, mind, and instinct.

The picture offers certain clues and the picture’s puzzle adjusts to viewer’s capacity of understanding and seeing the idea in connection between reality and puzzle-like artistic formula.

The coherence of the picture can be reached by different approaches either through thinking, or seeing, by intuitive comprehension, or knowledge.

Jaisini’s line clusters do not claim to construct reality. They aim to present us with alternative connection to reality. And it is a self-conscious exercise of seeing but not believing, believing but not feeling, feeling but not knowing. The artist motivates us to experience many levels of this self-conscious exercise. Jaisini places more force of signification on linear spontaneity such as free flow, causality of the line that compete with conceptual activity of meaning creating that is a brain teasing game.

It was set up by the artist to bring out such a creation that when you are tired of looking you can think and read. The special achievement of Jaisini is his mastery over causality and non-tension of line that is a great tool to cultivate subconscious comfort and willingness to further understanding.

The original impulse of Show Must GO On creation drove the artist’s hand to build the meaning and idea, but at the same time the overall compositional elements of this painting are hardly explainable or meaningful.

It seems that this picture is a contest of subject matter against pure form, pure spatial balance with only purpose of space elaboration. Jaisini seems to consciously use his emotion of sorrow, emotion from musical stimulation to find unusual combinations of images, colors, and linear patterns. The painting’s ensemble of images is the most surprising in relation to title and original motive. The central main image of man in SMGO is being pulled by two opposing forces of creation and destruction, most likely self-destruction if read into the picture’s context. There is also a complex subject of rape that is presented in the painting.

In our minds and epoch rape symbolic seems to completely loose its original artistic context when the heroic rape was produced during the 15th through 18th centuries in pursuit of marital doctrine and to serve as erotic stimulation, sometimes to assert political authority.

Jaisini’s impulse to suggest a “heroic” rape from comes from an ingrain artistic reaction to the outside world as eternal antagonistic power to creativity. In such art as of Jaisini the symbolic of sexual nature transforms into yet another level of meaning. In classical art sexual subjects and images of rape were meant to justify violence against woman in a high fashion of submissiveness to husband and sacrifice for family. In Gleitzeit art presence of sexual symbolic is disinherits social quality.

It is a tool for creating figurative contrasts and points of higher sensibility.

At the same time imagery inherit a history of meaning in art and therefore can emit additional aspect of possible meaning. In that capacity Jaisini’s paintings are magnets for the mind. The line reminds a lasso that traps the prey. Jaisini’s visual manner of creating a tangled line derives from the deep-seated character of a hunter who has to capture his subject and tighten it up. But the picture’s composition is never strained. It is at the moment of creation and capture. The prey that could be the artist’s thought of an image is not restricted to one meaning, one vision. It is on a brink of new development. Just as interpretation of the picture.

Tradition in art to portray scenes of hunting traces back to ancient Greek but is transformed now in purely formal development of line that is not easily comprehended because in the art of Jaisini there is no figurative scenes of hunt or pursuit, no heroes with role ranks.

In Show Must Go On a central figure of a man non-ambiguously enters a figure of submissive person. It looks like a “heroic” rape scene but not as a classical representation of a god or a hero chasing a woman or a youth.

The painting doesn’t represent metaphorically sexual desire of Greek art’s sample where sexual relations were transformed in a metaphor of hunt.

This version is easily eliminated as the scene in Show Must Go On is homoerotic and the violated figure is not of youth or of an attractive appearance. As in many traditional images of “heroic” rape in the one in SMGO no one suffered great harm. A classical happy ending of marital story doesn’t apply to the concept of Show Must Go On that puts attacker in a position of victim. He is a victim of a personal creative urge of an artist who sacrifices something not known to majority of people shown by the unusual development when the raper in turn is violated by a portrayed predator (a sword-fish) who enters from the back and aims at his heart.

The image of submissive man might take on a role of bride who doesn’t resist the event of rape. His role of a silent victim seems to be a bigger burden then a role of transgressor or the rapist. Jaisini creates unique transformations in each of his work. The singer is this central man-rapist is not accidentally depicted as athletically build one to highlight a sensation of attractiveness worthy of assault. The transgressor is more worthy the assault then his victim. The prototype of a singer, Freddie Mercury, is not athletic.

The central man’s visual image doesn’t correspond to the initial inspiration.

The transformation changes percept of things when the prototype of the singer originally is not the body builder type.

The victimization by creative process is a complex subject taking in account the process of spontaneous painting style. In the works of Jaisini there are no pornographicall images, but sensuality is intense. It is achieved by the curvilinear plastic entrapping with line’s contact points accented by special symbolism making sensuality tangible without realistic portrayals.

One of the painting’s concepts is to show a victim of creative urge.

The mechanism of the offered role change is even more complex taking in account process of painting when the artist starts his work from a fleeting vision from mind finishing his painting in one session. It means that Jaisini executes inner thought and formulates it even before he fully understands what is done. That may explain mastery of the fresh and brisk approach of painting and unusual associations.

The main image of male in the painting who is rushing forward seems to be a deliberately provocative indication of an intercourse in bizarre set up. But the figure of aggressor is vulnerable by the depiction of a sward-fish attack.

Is this predator is a truer portrayal of maleness than of the central man meant to be masculine and aggressive but renewed in meaning with additional context of victimization. This image is going through immediate unusual change into a new type of androgen.

The man (creator) has attractiveness of female as recent popular incarnations of the androgen images in popular culture singers with strong sexual charge such as Alice Cooper, Freddie Mercury, Robert Plant.

The expression of sexual ambivalence in the artist establishes a fascinating game that exploits the confusion surrounding the male and female roles.

   

-^- 11 months ago -^-

 

'Vulcan's Veggies, huh?' Jay thought, looking up at the large sign on the building. 'Eddie hasn't given up that vegan lifestyle all this time, huh?'

 

It had taken more searching than he'd expected, around a month and a half, to be more accurate. He'd done it though, Barry Allen was the Flash, and he operated at Vulcan's Veggies. It's owner? Eddie Jones, the Black Vulcan himself. Jay didn't know if fate was being kind to him, but he wouldn't argue it.

 

He'd lost too many friends already, possibly getting one back wasn't something he'd ever think about questioning.

 

Giving the restaurant a light knock, he removed his baseball cap, holding it by his stomach as he bounced on his heels.

 

Jay took note of the area around the restaurant. The park was lively, kids running around, playing games together. He could tell exactly, but it looked like they were playing superheroes, if the makeshift capes were any indicator.

 

It brought a smile to his face. The JSA… failed. It was a common fact after what happened to Dinah. However, to see these children still inspired by the likes of Superman, Green Lantern, and the new Flash. It gave him hope that one day, he'd see a Justice Society that thrives.

 

The door swung open, gaining Jay's attention. A young, blond man stood inside the restaurant. He wore plain clothes, had spiked hair, and a friendly smile. Jay knew it was him.

 

"Um, hey there," he greeted. "I'm sorry but the restaurant is closed right now."

 

"Well, it may sound odd," Jay responded, "but I'm not here for any vegan cuisine. You're Barry Allen, right?"

 

"Yeah... have we met before, sir?"

 

"You could say that, mind letting me in for a moment son?"

 

"Barry, shut the damn door!" a familiar voice called from inside the building. "I'm not paying for heating just for you to- to…"

 

Jay's eyes widened seeing the man hobble out of the restroom, cane in hand. His hair was patchy and light grey, but the look of astonishment on his face brought a smile to Jay's own.

 

"Jay?"

 

"Jay?" Barry mimicked, looking between the two. "J-Jay! Jay Garrick!"

 

"Eddie," Jay greeted with a nod.

 

"Let him inside, Barry," Eddie ordered, walking towards a booth. "And close the damn door!"

 

Barry stepped aside, allowing Jay inside the building. He took a moment to marvel at the decorations around and architecture of the room. "You really liked the lightning aesthetic, eh Eddie?" he asked, looking at the man.

 

"You can say that," he mumbled. "Joan?"

 

Jay smiled, that caring instinct, even after he was long retired. "She… she's fine," he said, looking at his ring. "The Speed Force works in… very mysterious ways. She ages the same way I do."

 

The man stood up at that, walking away from the booth and towards Jay. "You're one lucky son of a bitch, y'know that?"

 

"Thank god for it every day."

 

Jay's eyes traveled to the door, seeing Barry stand tense. It almost made him laugh, but his eyes refocused on Eddie.

 

Eddie leaned forward, giving Jay a hug. Jay reciprocated, wrapping his arms around the man. He could hear the audible sigh from Barry, which finally did break both him and Eddie.

 

"I'm so glad you two are okay," Eddie said, chuckling as he pulled back.

 

"I can say the same about you, Eddie."

 

The two smiled at each other for a moment, before Eddie turned his head. "What're ya staring for, huh? Got something to say?" he shouted, causing the young man to jump.

 

"O-oh, no," Barry said, walking towards the back room, shutting the door once he was inside.

 

"He's a good kid," Eddie said, with a smile.

 

"I'd hope so," Jay responded. "He is taking up after my legacy."

 

-^- Present Day -^-

 

Barry limped through the door of Vulcan's Veggie's, plopping down onto one of the booths. Jay shook his head as Barry removed his suit's chest piece, revealing his stitches.

 

"You're lucky Eddie isn't here," Jay chastised, placing a box of medical tools onto the table. "Shot twice…"

 

"The second time I was already down," Barry mumbled.

 

"It's the principle, son," Jay said, beginning to remove the stitching in Barry's abdomen. "You can't expect to save people if you're getting hurt like this." Jay emphasized his point by roughly pulling the stitch out.

 

"Jay… ah… people could've gotten hurt," Barry said, gritting his teeth as another stitch was removed from his abdomen.

 

Jay continued to remove the stiches in silence, finishing his stomach wound and moving to his leg. "You are people, Barry," he said, plucking out a knee stitch. "And you got hurt."

 

"If it means a few stitches for me," Barry said, closing his eyes as the last knee stitch was removed, "then so be it."

 

"No Barry, not so be it!" Jay shouted, slamming his fist on the table. "You can't even use speed healing in the moment yet, you can't save lives if you're laid up like this!"

 

"Then what's the alternative, Jay?" Barry asked, propping himself up. "Do you think Superman or the Green Lantern would just let civilians get shot?"

 

"No, that's not what I'm saying…" Jay said, wiping down the tools used with a wet cloth. "You aren't bulletproof, Barry. I'm not telling you to let people get hurt for your sake, but you have to take yourself into account.

 

"I did this gig for a long, long time, son. It may not seem like it, but I made a lot of mistakes. I want you to be better than me, but you won't be able to if you die a year into it. All I'm asking is to slow down, and think things through. Just because you're the fastest man alive doesn't mean you have to run headfirst into any problem."

 

Barry opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, looking down. "I just… I won't let someone die because I couldn't act," he said, raising his head and bringing himself to a stand. His healing had kicked in, though he was still sore. "I need to get back out there as soon as I can, Snart and his crew won't wait long before making another play."

 

Jay sighed, closing the box of tools. "You sure you don't want to wait?" He asked, wiping his hands with the cloth. "Those bullet holes are sure to give you a hell of a draft."

 

Barry pulled his mask over his face, turning his head back to Jay. "I'll be fine, the cold has never bothered me anyways."

 

-^- Central City Federal Reserve, 11:30pm -^-

 

Joe stood outside the reserve. The police line from earlier in the day had been replaced, forming a much larger radius around the building.

 

It had been around ten minutes since the Rogues had made their move, the on duty officers making the call before being incapacitated. At least he hoped they were only incapacitated.

 

"We need to make some kind of move," August said, his fists clenching. "Snart isn't opposed to killing officers if he needs too, if we wait too long-"

 

"No…" Joe said, stopping him. "Rushing in… it's only gonna get someone hurt… especially with whatever the hell kinda tech they have."

 

"So you want to just sit around?" he shouted back, gaining the attention of a few other officers.

 

"August, what happened?" Joe asked, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "You don't normally rush in… even just earlier today you-"

 

"I know," he snapped back, shrugging off Joe's hand. "It's just… Flash saved everyone in that bank… and because we were too slow, he could've died. He shouldn't have to do this alone."

 

A blur of red and gold rushed past the two, a rush of wind following close behind.

 

"August… you told me that… that the Flash is gonna make a difference… one that no normal man or woman could," Joe said, moving so he faced August. "Those three inside… they aren't ordinary… and hell, I bet he's just grateful you made sure his mask stayed on."

 

"Yeah…" August said, exhaling. "Yeah, he probably is… it would be like him."

 

"Hm?"

 

"N-nothing… just… nothing."

 

Joe patted the man on the back, his head turning towards the Reserve. "Do right by my city, Flash."

 

-^-

 

'It'll be different this time,' Barry thought as he ran into the reserve. 'No hostages are gonna be hurt, and I won't let them escape.'

 

Barry dashed through the building, slowing to stop as he heard voices. "Okay Barry," he mumbled, "different this time."

 

"You think he's going to show?"

 

"A bullet to the gut probably put him out of commission."

 

"He'll be here, I've already heard the CCPD's radio's saying he's on the way."

 

'He has CCPD's radio frequencies…' Barry thought, realizing how he was able to slip away so easily. 'That explains how he knew I was coming.'

 

Barry's eyes shifted to the room's entrance. The only entrance. 'He's expecting me through there… he wants a head on fight,' Barry thought, his head turning to the hallway. 'Two weeks of phase training is gonna have to be enough.'

 

Barry walked down the hall, his heart racing as he came face to face with the wall. "It's simple Barry," he mumbled, closing his eyes and taking multiple deep breaths. "Let everything go. Feel free, make yourself free."

 

Barry's body began to vibrate, a low hum resonating from him. Taking a step forward, his leg slipped through the wall, into the other room. He smiled slightly, pushing his body through the structure, finding himself in the room behind the Rogues.

 

His eyes locked onto the three hostages, all police officers. 'They're my priority…'

 

Barry zipped forward, picking up two of the officers with a small struggle. Snart turned, teeth gritting. "What!?"

 

Barry dashed out of the room and building, dropping the officers off outside. His body turned, running right back inside. This time, he stopped as he entered the room, eyes narrowing at Snart, Rory, and Bivolo, who now held the last officer near them.

 

"Nice costumes…" Barry said, looking between the three. "Let the man go, Bivolo."

 

"It's Rainbow Raider now," Bivolo replied, holding his fist up to the man's head. "I won't be giving up our leverage that easily."

 

"Leverage for what?" Barry asked, looking to Snart. "You aren't getting out of here, not while I'm standing."

 

"That's the idea, dirtbag," Rory replied, lifting up his weapon and firing it.

 

Barry's eyes widened as a blast of fire shot from the gun. 'A flamethrower!?' he thought, dashing to the left, narrowly avoiding being burned.

 

A clicking noise sounded off from Bivolo's gauntlet, a yellow light emitting as a blast of air shot forward. Barry wasn't fast enough to dodge the attack, flying into the wall of the room.

 

"As you can see, Flash," Snart began, walking forward, "I'm not the type to make the same mistakes, or play, twice. You can dodge and catch bullets…" he said, pointing his weapon at Barry, "but how do you do against the cold?"

 

A beam of blue energy shot from the gun and at Barry, causing the hero to scream in pain. As the ray stopped, Barry began to pant, shivering. His head looked down to his leg, noticing it was frozen in a block of ice.

 

"W-W-W-what the h-hell?"

 

"Mardon was on the right track," he said, walking away from Barry, back to the hostage. "The weather is strong as a power… but even you can't run when your leg is at absolute zero."

 

"Y-Y-You used M-M-Mardon's tech?" Barry asked, slamming his fist against the ice block, trying to free himself.

 

"I built upon it," Snart said, walking back to Bivolo. Rory, however, began walking towards Barry. "Mick, leave him. He's not going anywhere."

 

"I kill him now, then we don't need to worry about him ever again," Rory explained.

 

Barry closed his eyes as Rory approached him, running though any possible solutions in his head. 'I'm not strong enough to break it… and I can't get up like this,' he thought, the footsteps stopping in front of him. His eyes opened to see Rory standing above him with a smirk on his face. 'I need to superheat it… this is gonna hurt…'

 

Barry took a deep breath, reading his arm. As the blast of flames shot from Rory's gun, Barry flung his arm downwards, causing a gust of air. Rory lost control of the gun, the pressure of the wind forcing his arm downwards, torching the block of ice.

 

As soon as Barry could feel his leg again, he jolted up, zipping across the room. The hero breathed heavily, watching the three criminals turn towards him. "You're smart, Flash," Snart said, aiming his gun once more.

 

"But you aren't fast enough to beat all three of us!" Bivolo announced, his gauntlet once again clicking, now glowing a deep purple.

 

A blast of purple lightning shot from his wrist, spreading like a spiderweb as it traveled towards Barry. Letting out the breath he was holding, he felt time around him slow. The arch of lightning passed by him, Barry making slow, cautious movements to avoid any breaking chains. As soon as he cleared the attack, he ran forwards, uppercutting Bivolo.

 

He hadn't seen the sheet of ice painted on the ground, so after the attack, he lost his footing, sliding to a fall. He rolled out of the way, barely dodging the blast of fire from Rory's flamethrower.

 

Bivolo recovered quickly, aiming both gauntlets this time, one colored blue, the other green. Slamming his blue hand onto the ground, large chunks of ice rose from the floor, jagged and sharp at the edges. His green hand aimed and fired, waves of sound shattering the ice and sending the shards forward as projectiles.

 

Barry moved quickly, grabbing each ice shard mid air, making sure to keep one eye locked on Bivolo. As the barrage ended, Barry smirked and began chucking the icicles back at the villains. Bivolo's gauntlets switched since more, now an orange color. In front of him was an orange wave of pure heat, melting the ice on impact.

 

Rory blasted his flamethrower, creating a wall of fire in front of him, which Snart quickly moved behind. Barry took the opportunity to grab the hostage and run the man out of the building.

 

"You're safe now," he assured, smiling at the man. "Get to the police line and tell Detective West all the hostages are free."

 

"Okay…" the man mumbled, stumbling to a stand. "Thank you, Flash."

 

Barry nodded to the man before running back into the building. The hero was once again met with the three foes, noticing Rory's wall of flames was gone. Snart seemed to be annoyed, both Bivolo and Rory adorning much angrier expressions.

 

"Well then, now your leverage is gone," Barry said, dashing forward. He dodged a quick blast of indigo colored water from Bivolo before bowser-throwing the villain into the back wall. "Give up now, and make it easy for yourselves."

 

The roar of Rory's flamethrower started up again, a spiral of fire blasting out of the gun. "NOT A CHANCE!" he shouted, laughing maniacally as the room lit up orange.

 

Barry let out a deep breath. 'You've got this Barry,' he thought before twirling his body around.

 

Barry could feel the heat of the flames around him, but the fire didn't hurt. It was a move Jay had used against an old foe, Heatmonger, to channel fire around him and send it back at his opponent.

 

"Mick, stop!" Snart shouted, most likely realizing Barry's plan.

 

"He can't spin forever!"

 

"That's the point!" Snart shouted, firing his own weapon at Barry. "He doesn't need to!"

 

Snart, however, was too late. Barry stopped his spin-technique by flinging his arm forward, careening the flames back at Rory. Slamming his elbow into the structure behind him, Barry caused safety deposit boxes to fly out of their slots. Taking the largest of them all, he threw it like a frisbee, intercepting Snart's beam of cold.

 

Snart dove for cover as the flames were sent hurtling back their way. Rory, too entranced by the bright light, was hit head on by the reversed attack.

 

Barry turned to Snart, watching as he stood with a fierce look on his face. "Dammit, Mick!" he shouted, flicking a switch on his handle and blasting his partner with what seemed to be a secondary function of his gun; cold air.

 

"That function doesn't look too lethal," Barry said, Snart's gaze shifting from Rory to himself.

 

"When your partner has severe pyromania, it's a necessity," Snart responded, flipping the switch on his gun. "No need for a mom and pop shop to go out of business because of it."

 

"I don't get you, Snart… you won't kill, you keep injuries and damage at a minimum… why?" Barry asked, keeping his eyes locked onto Snart's trigger.

 

"I've been through a lot, seen what happens when some two-bit thug gets a little trigger happy and kills an innocent wife and mother, when some lowlife takes away a person's only lifeline," Snart explained, stepping closer to Barry. "Life can be cruel… I've experienced it first hand. There's no reason someone else should need to."

 

"Then why? Why walk this path?" Barry asked. "You built those weapons in less than a day, right? Do you know how much good you can do for the world?"

 

"The world never did me good, Flash. Just because I won't ruin someone's life, doesn't mean I feel like helping them."

 

With those words, Snart's finger began to move. Barry readied himself, but both paused as a cry came from across the room.

 

"Leonard!"

 

Both Barry and Snart turned to the voice, Barry's eyes widening at the sight. Bivolo had tears running down his face as rainbow colored energy shot from his hands wildly. Barry took note of the gauntlets on Bivolo's hands, cracked and broken from the throw.

 

"Leonard! I can't control it! Help me!"

 

NEXT TIME: Multi-Colored Mayhem, the Rainbow Raider Unleashed!

I made my way to the docks. That was where most smuggling occurred. I began questioning dock workers, but they either knew nothing or were too scared to talk. At last I found a pair of workers who were willing to give me information on the Black Nova gang. They were very polite. Anyone who is polite to you on Terth is not to be trusted. As the sun rose in the pale green sky, my informants wrote the address of an ex-gang member on a slip of paper.

"Av a gud day, sir." one of them said as I left.

Yeah, they were up to something...

<Previous Next>

King Edmund III, called “the Weak,” rules over a realm in decline. His authority has been shaken by the defeat in the Long War, which left nobles openly questioning his rule and the border Marches drifting toward rebellion. Though he clings to the trappings of power and presides over an otherwise centralized semi-feudal monarchy, his reign is marked by indecision and deference to court factions. By tradition he remains the head of the realm, and his presence carries symbolic weight, but in practice much of the day-to-day governance and defense is increasingly contested by ambitious nobles and fractious border lords.

 

Beside him stands Queen Beatrice, whose steadiness and quiet gravitas provide a counterbalance to Edmund’s hesitancy. While she does not rule with absolute power, she is well respected among courtiers and serves as a moderating influence at court, smoothing disputes and protecting her daughter’s interests behind the scenes. Their only child, Princess Eleanor, is a contemplative and studious young woman. She has long been drawn to the libraries of Belson and Archeon College, showing more affinity for books, philosophy, and quiet scholarship than for the rituals of statecraft or battlefield command. Her learned temperament and intellectual bent give her a certain esteem among the university circles and courtly scholars, though some question whether she possesses the boldness needed in troubled times.

 

Completing the immediate dynasty is Edmund’s nephew, Prince James, and his wife, Princess Genevieve. James is a veteran of the Long War and has gained a reputation for martial competence and decisive leadership—qualities that contrast sharply with his uncle. Many nobles dissatisfied with Edmund’s weakness see James as a more effective potential ruler. Princess Genevieve is his gracious consort, a stabilizing partner whose diplomatic sensibilities and gentle charisma complement James’s vigor in arms. Together, they are sometimes seen as a rival court center, quietly cultivating support among the discontented and offering an alternative vision of strength and renewal for the kingdom.

 

---------

 

Built as a freebuild for the Brethren of the Brick Seas Prequel - Tales of Old on EuroBricks

Richard Cromwell's questioning glance seems to be asking Barbara Weeks just what she thinks of his pet hot dog stand and their dog-gone-doggie hot dogs. Every time Dick passes the Hollywood Bowl he makes a ten second detour to the Sycamores" just to satisfy his "inner man."

August 1938

During the colder months I find myself drawn to creating in more controlled settings, taking my time to play with lighting, refining the posing and styling, and using all these elements to bring to life the worlds I envision in my mind.

 

For this image I experimented with including a digital backdrop. That was the final missing piece that transported this image to another realm.

 

Want to be better at color toning?

❤ Check out my color toning store - www.onlythecurious.com

 

Say hi! ~

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The important thing is to not stop questioning :-) Albert Einstein

 

sarah p duke gardens, duke university, durham, north carolina

We defeated all goons on either sides. Time to question them.

 

NW: "Huntress, you take one on Black Mask's side, Azrael and I will take one of Two-Face's."

 

Hntrs: "Sounds like a plan."

 

Azrael grabs one of the thugs and slaps him in the face so he would wake up. When he woke up he saw Azrael and me and I think he almost pissed his pants. Azrael holds his sword against the thug's throat and he begins questioning.

 

Azrl: "So, tell us little man, why would Two-Face join Penguin against Black Mask in this gangwar?"

 

Thug: "Wh- why would I tell you that, it's not like you're gonna kill me, you're on of Batman's lackies."

 

Azrl: "But Batman ain't here right now, is he?"

 

Azrael starts pushing the sword more and more against his throat. He wouldn't kill him, he's no Jean-Paul Valley.

 

Azrl: "Now tell me!!"

 

Thug: "Alright alright!!! Penguin promised Two-Face half of his territories in Gotham if they would win the war, and Two-Face would get half the money they earned from it, as long as Penguin could use Two-Face's men."

 

NW: "Half, of course. It's all about power."

 

Azrl: "See? Was that so difficult?"

 

Thug: "W- Will you let me go now?"

 

Azrl: "What kind of stupid question is that?"

 

And Azrael knocks the thug out again.

 

Huntress is doing the same thing Azrael did to one of Two-Face's guys, pick one up and slap him in the face as hard as she could. The guy wakes up and Huntress scares the crap out of him, literally I think...

 

Hntrs: "Soooo, how about you tell me what Black Mask's plan is?"

 

Thug: "Why would I tell you that?"

 

Hntrs: "I could do a good word for you at Blackgate. Say you helped us stopping this war."

 

Thug: "I can't... Black Mask would kill me."

 

Hntrs: "He won't be able to if he's locked up in Arkham."

 

The thug thinks about it but Helena gets inpatiend.

 

Hntrs: "Alright I don't have time for this, I could verry easily knock you out, and ask one of your other friends who might actually be interested."

 

Thug: "Alright alright!!!"

 

Hntrs: "Good, now spill."

 

Thug: "Alright, Black Mask wants to take over Gotham, so he could make Gotham is crimimal base. And when I say base, I really mean base, with walls and shit like that. High walls."

 

Hntrs: "Alright, what's his next move?"

 

Thug: "He has send Black Spider to find the Ventriliquist and ask for his services."

 

Hntrs: "Alright, thanks for the intell."

 

And she knocks him out again. She walks towards Azrael and me so we can compare the intell we just got.

 

Hntrs: "So guys, what do you got?"

 

NW: "Two-Face only works for Penguin so he gets half of Gotham, and half of the money they earn with this war."

 

Hntrs: "Like Penguin is really gonna do that, giving up half of his territories and money. He'll kill Two-Face if he wins this war and then simply take his men under his control."

 

Azrl: "Not sure. Penguin is scared of Dent, he wouldn't betray him that easily."

 

NW: "True. What do you got Hel?"

 

Hntrs: "Black Mask wants to take Gotham so he can make it his criminal base. With high walls and machine guns. That makes me think they don't know anything about the forcefield, so they can't have hired a magic user to do it."

 

Azrl: "Does that mean there might be a third party?"

 

NW: "Maybe... let's not get to that conclusion yet. Got anything more Hel?"

 

Hntrs: "Yeah, Black Mask has deployed Black Spider to find the Ventriliquist so he can ask him for his services. But he doesn't know where he is."

 

NW: "I do. He has a secret weapons factory, near Chinatown. If we can make it there before Spider does, we might take down at least one side of this war."

 

Azrl: "What are we waiting for, let's go."

What have i done wrong? Do i deserve to be kept in zoo not in jungle like free beings?

This young Policewoman stopped me for questioning strictly telling me to listen to her directives and obey completely or she will use her Policewoman's billy to mercilessly club me down to her stiletto heels. I obeyed as directed by her.

... the accomplice .... who carried on whilst I was questioning the other squirrel featured in the previous mug shot!

Does a fly every ask why insects keep getting caught in spider webs? If it could only read: www.nature.com/articles/srep02108

I always wonder... If, say... frogs don't have a soul (admittedly, who knows? :) ... at which point in evolution was the first "hu-man" blessed with one? Or is it all fairy tales for grown ups? Still we know there's a difference, but do we mistake a moderately higher level of consciousness with the ability to talk to God?

 

Frankly... I have no answers, obviously. I'd like to have some and I guess many of us might be happy with just a few, as well. Can't we have some? Depends on what "answers" mean to us, I'm afraid. I can't rely on faith alone, but it goes both ways and I don't reject any scenario.

 

ps - Real proud and happy about this :) Vatican chief astronomer just said belief in God and aliens is OK, even the contrary would not be real good :) Got a Jesuitical education... I must say this image is about that. About the questioning, hey, not the education... About tIme to reconcile beliefs and science. Or is it only the escape strategy from the loosing contender? Hhmmm... I'd like not to think so but I've been raised to put questions :)

c’mon... :-)

 

pps - OK Jay so I dedicate this image to Jose Gabriel Funes and to

YOU because you triggered the same thoughts in your own ways :) And you're both Zpanish zpeaking people. Don't call him Joze, though, if my old Vatican connections are still right... Don't... To some who might wonder... Don't we need to smile? Hehe, a pity Aristotle didn't sign with Disney, then...

 

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wondering on black: :) medium - large

 

befuddled by all that surrounds me. constantly questioning, wandering, trying to survive

i have made mistakes

 

but you

you make me feel like there is something

anything

to live for

Please visit my website!

:::::www.johnathonpowers.com:::::

 

Location: Tomball, Texas

Date Taken: May 2015.

 

Camera: Hasselblad 500 C/M

Film: Kodak Tri-X 400 (shot at speed)

Format: 120 (medium format)

Lens: 80mm CF

Shutter Speed:

Aperture:

 

Development: Self developed in Kodak D76 1:1 for 9:45 mins.

Scanning: Scanned via betterscanning holders using an Epson v700 and Epson scan software.

Editing: Curves, levels, spot healing dust, and other minor adjustments were made in Lightroom.

Familiar to all street photographers

- Albert Einstein

  

Oh, Spring where art thou?

Somehow the metal grating stays sturdy in place although I found myself questioning it every step of the way.

This is a collage on material I did for a collaborative project called Antinomy of War done with the Moving Ethos Dance Group. My work is questioning war in general.

Looks like she was questioning someone. :)

She'sjust silent in the middle of the night,

Listening to every sounds and songs,

she is questioning her self,

What has been going on?

 

She closes her eyes and dreaming,

she is running away; don't know from what,

screaming till lost her voice, and yet in her dream...

 

Bright sun light through the window,

whispering a warm "good morning"

a kiss from morning breeze,

still the silent inside her heart,

with the same question without answer....

 

Larose

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

 

Have a lovely weekend everyone~!

  

As if we weren't already questioning our President and his administration, Donald Trump is now faced with his first national health crisis, the coronavirus. And, true to form, his response inspires and calms the fears of no one. In 2018, the President fired the government's pandemic team of experts. And when Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus, the director-general of the World Health Organization (WHO), declared the coronavirus a global public health emergency on January 30, 2020, the federal government had no one in place to respond to the emergency.

 

By contrast, during the 2014 Ebola outbreak, President Obama recognized the impact this might have on our country and abroad. He appointed Ronald Klain, a former Vice Presidential staffer, to organize the efforts of the many departments and agencies of the government. His job was to coordinate the roles and budgets of various agencies. There was no concerted effort by the Trump Administration to do something similar. Rather than appoint a person with experience in health-threat triage, he selected Vice President Pence to oversee planning, a man who, as Governor of Indiana, prolonged an HIV outbreak by refusing to institute a needle exchange program.

 

In the spring of 2018, the White House pushed Congress to cut funding for Obama-era disease security programs, proposing to eliminate $252 million in previously committed resources for rebuilding health systems in Ebola-ravaged Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea. Under fire from both sides of the aisle, President Donald Trump dropped the proposal to eliminate Ebola funds a month later. But other White House efforts included reducing $15 billion in national health spending and cutting the global disease-fighting operational budgets of the CDC, NSC, DHS, and HHS. And the government’s $30 million Complex Crises Fund was eliminated.

 

— Laurie Garrett, Foreign Policy

 

One of the Trump Administration's first acknowledgements of the virus was anything but calming. Instead of addressing the health threat, Commerce Secretary Wilbur Ross appeared on Fox Business to suggest the outbreak in China might improve the United State's job prospects. While at the World Economic Forum gathering in Davos the third week of January, Trump suggested Americans had nothing to worry about, since the outbreak was half-a-world away. By February, a number of cases had been reported in this country and they continue to rise. But, as late as February 26, the President was taking credit for making some "very good early decisions" he felt had kept the virus at bay. And, on March 4, in a meeting with airline executives, he appeared to turn aside criticism of his chaotic and slow approach by blaming the Obama Administration for rules that limited states' abilities to conduct coronavirus screenings, rules, he said he had just changed.

 

Meanwhile, the stock markets suffered their biggest loses since the 2008 bank crisis on pandemic fears, including the largest drop of the DOW in one day on February 27, 2020: 1191 points. Trump, who has touted his economic policies, feared this drop would negatively affect his chances for re-election. And, the next day, his son, Donald Trump, Jr., accused the Democrats of hoping the pandemic "kills millions of people so that they could end Donald Trump's streak of winning...." (Pence defended Jr.'s statement). CNN's Chris Cillizza responded by saying, "What Trump Jr. is doing here then is using rhetorical hyperbole for the political benefit of his father."

 

Rush Limbaugh, who Trump recently awarded the Medal of Freedom, called the pandemic a "deep state plot" to bring down the President and Trump agreed. On his radio show, Limbaugh said, "It looks like the coronavirus is being weaponized as yet another element to bring down Donald Trump... I want to tell you the truth about the coronavirus. Yeah, I’m dead right on this. The coronavirus is the common cold, folks." Donald tweeted, the media is "doing everything possible to make the Caronavirus [sic] look as bad as possible." He referred to criticism his administration was not prepared nor doing enough to contain the virus as a Democrat "hoax."

 

Once again, Donald Trump feels he is a shining example of a capable leader. People are sick and dying and his sycophants continue to enable him. He has done everything to downplay the severity of this crisis, while at the same time, looking like he's got this completely under control.

 

See the rest of the posters from the Chamomile Tea Party! Digital high res downloads are free here (click the down arrow on the lower right side of the image). Other options are available. And join our Facebook group.

 

Follow the history of our country's political intransigence from 2010-2018 through a six-part exhibit of these posters on Google Arts & Culture.

   

followed by me asking "what would you like me to do now?"

source: freedownloadminecraft.com/questioning-morality-map.html

I was surprised and concerned that he seemed determined to face the storm out in the open.

I'm questioning my date on this shot. I'm about 99 percent sure that the water tank in the background was not there in 1992, so this slide might be misfiled.

The full issue is available online at questioning.org/Feb2021/wondering.html

 

In this article I suggest thinking and planning strategies schools should be teaching students so they can wrestle with the challenges posed by horrible events like the pandemic.

 

The photo above shows one of my daughters and her two children heading toward a light house on one of the San Juan Islands, shot a dozen years back. It also appears on the cover of my book, "The Great Report" at fno.org/GreatReport/greatreport.html

  

Stack of two 4 minute images.Strobe with blue and magenta gel,flashlight with red gel and bare flashlight,sodium lights and full moon.View large for mister X!!

Ink and inkwash on paper

 

Jim Bodman

"My name is Jim Bodman and I'm the chairman of the Vienna Sausage Company in Chicago. And the building that we are currently standing in, which is on the north side of Chicago, on Damon near the corner of Fullerton, was built around 1970."

  

I loved this short story that I heard on the radio program: This American Life from July 2003. The title of the episode is

"Call in Colonel Mustard For Questioning." It reminds me of a character I have created, except this guy is the real thing, so I felt I had to draw this story. I once thought sending it to TAL as a completed pamphlet but alas it has sat in my file drawer so here it is. Text is transcripts from TAL's website.

Questioning the inner life!

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.

  

***** Selected for sale in the GETTY IMAGES COLLECTION on April 30th 2015

  

CREATIVE RF gty.im/552123677 MOMENT OPEN COLLECTION**

  

This photograph became my 590th image to be selected for inclusion and sale in the Getty Images 'Moment' collection, and I am very grateful to them for such an amazing opportunity.

  

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.

 

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COFFEE TASTING KISSES

 

Caffè Artigiano, Hornby Street, just off of Robson. Early in the AM and I'm in need of my caffeine fix. I'm here for a reason, not simply by chance or else any corporate coffee house offering overpriced grinds and yesterdays cake would suffice.

 

The joint is relatively quiet right now, just a handful of early birds revelling in the delicious aromas of freshly ground coffee beans or grabbing a bite to eat to start the day before the rush sets in. Commuter zone in the big city, bored faces, blank expressions, dashed aspirations crushed on the rocks of a world of tedium and conformity.

 

Damn this modern day life and the frenetic pace that we lead like sheep, following the pack, never questioning why we do what we do, never stopping to smell the roses and take some time out to enjoy what we actually have. Not the commercialism nor Rolex around our wrists, but the purity of life, the wonder of our existence, the simple things that fall prey to the darkness all around us, victim of our need and greed.

 

I clear the table of all debris and distractions, every trace of the people who sat here before me. I like clean lines, a lack of clutter, room to think and move, nothing invading my personal space as I brush aside some sugar granules and a cellophane wrapper to an oatmeal cookie that offends my eyes as it covets the beautiful antique styled wooden table at which I sit.

 

My left hand rises slowly to reveal the Omega chrome bezel of my wrist watch flashing beneath the overhead strip lighting which tells me that it's just turned eight. The coffee parked up in front of me, teasing my senses is a work of art, I ask you, how can a simple coffee look so God damned appealing for a couple of measly bucks?

 

That old Omega reminds me of my own mortality. A parting gift from the only woman I ever truly loved and the only person to get close enough to me to scare me witless at the very prospect of giving up the only life that I have known ever since I was a rebellious and wayward kid. The soldier within me still yearns for leadership, like a scruffy mutt I await my orders before I commit to action.

 

Times change, people bend the truth, lips lie but memories stay as true and fresh as the day that they formed in your pathetic little mind. I'm the same man yet different from the one back then. Older and wiser, more resigned and bitter at life's misfortunes and twists of fate, I believe in always looking to the future, though a nod to the past sometimes keeps us from insanity.

 

The rich dark roasted beans seduce my taste buds as I take a sip, carefully placing lips to porcelain, cautious not to burn my flesh and take layers off the roof of my mouth in the process. But I needn't worry. Corporate poppycock, health and safety gone mad, rules and regulations regarding the safe operating temperatures of tea urns and coffee machines to safeguard against customer claims of injury and the subsequent backlash of claims and counter claims in the Canadian court rooms.

 

It's civilisation gone mad as newspapers daily tell us of fat heads playing the system and winning millions in damages for the grape that they slipped over on in Walmart whilst browsing for some breakfast fruit, the burns received from the hot apple pies that are served in MacDonald's or the Winnebago that crashed on cruise control when the driver left the drivers seat to go to the porta-loo thinking that the vehicle would just follow the road on it's own volition.

 

There is a dumbing down of society, a wiseing up to the intricacies of playing the system, screwing your fellow man and taking them for everything you can get. I could weep. Still, the Java tastes good as I completely destroy the delicate and ornate patterning that now swirls around like a tsunami in my neatly monikered cup, eyes subtly surveying the room as the people sit in their own little worlds.

 

To my right at a two seater table sits Miss Prissy knickers, Librarian looks, mousy hair that could do with a little TLC, glasses that could kill a man's passion at twenty yards and eyes glued to the pages of this weeks new Stephen King best selling paperback. She's a speed reader, well practised in the art of darting through those written words at a rate of knots, taking in the impactive detail, digesting the characterisation without a hint of emotion in her face. Not a twitch nor flicker of the eyebrows, not a muscle moved in the mouth, jeez, she'd make the perfect assassin with that poker face.

 

She's blissfully unaware of anything around her, devoted to the storyline, immersed. No hint of a wedding ring on her fingers, she's married to her job, resolutely single and has probably never had a decent lay in her entire life.

A guy passes by her table, emerging from the tight and compact dimensions of the wash-room at the rear of the coffee-house, discreetly placed and merging into the décor with an elegant simplicity. His hands are still slightly wet, beads of water tumbling from his flesh to the ground like jumpers from a blazing sky scraper.

 

He walks to the table and gathers up his belongings, checking his inner jacket pocket for his cell phone which he flicks open and checks, eyes registering a degree of disdain at not receiving whatever message he had hoped. A lovers words, a secret rendezvous, work details and directions, whatever, he's none too pleased as he pulls a set of car keys from his pocket, I catch a brief glimpse of yet another manufacturers corporate logo as he winks at the pretty young thing behind the bar who served him as she has each morning this week at the same time, same beverage, same price. People and habits, you just gotta love 'em.

 

" Have a good one Ray ", she says as he reaches the door and throws a smile back her way. I drain my cup of it's final liquid droplets and rise to my feet, pushing the wooden chair back a way before turning and making my exit through the door. The sunlight is bright and brilliant, piercing my retinas as I place my Ray bans on walk down the road about thirty five paces behind Ray. An unremarkable man of five feet ten inches in height, thirty six years old, married with two children. Samantha aged fourteen and David aged twelve. A picture of bliss with a neat condo on Beacon Avenue near the waterfront in Sidney, BC, two cars, a dog and two cats. The details from his file are fresh in my mind as I increase my pace to within twelve paces of the mark as he winds his way unwittingly towards the end of his life.

 

A gambling man by any standards, neatly attired, respectable and clean, though up to his neck in debt thanks to a dead cert bet that he obtained through a friend of a friend who just happened to hear a couple of guys in the know talking daydreams near the race track. I hate gamblers more than any other form of low life scum. The thin veneer of honesty and integrity whilst all the while they would sell their own grandma down the line if they thought it would fund their next certainty.

 

I learned long ago in life that there is no such thing as a certainty, other than the the ones of birth and death, and any fool who lives with that lie and hope deserves what's coming to him. In Ray's case it's a head full of nine millimetre full metal jacket for defaulting on his twenty five thousand dollar stake money that he borrowed form some very unsavoury dudes.

 

These are the sort of guys that would kill your family right out in front of you just to prove a point, not that that ever crossed Rays stupid head when the moment came to place the bet that he could never honour should the worse scenario play out, which it surely did.

He is striding casually, oblivious to my presence, unaware that he is now about a minute from his own death and that his wife and two children have already been taken care of by the men who shall remain nameless. You see, in this game, nothing is sacrosanct, not the solemn vows of marriage nor the bonds of love from a husband to a wife, a mother to her daughter, a father to his son.

 

You take the risk, you make the bet, you borrow the money and if you fail to deliver what's owed on time, well then let's just say that all hell breaks loose until the beneficiaries, who in this sad situation in fact benefited from a big fast zero in monetary gain terms, deem that the punishment has indeed been made to fit the crime.

 

My eyes are surveying the scene, looking ahead, my brain calculating angles and degrees, seconds and minutes of escapes routes from the scene of the crime before it has been committed. Lucky for me, Ray turns Eastwards and moves into a skinny alley between two buildings, like a set from a motion picture as I hone in on his footsteps and reach inside my coat pocket for the cold steel of the weapon. In a way I'm helping the hapless fool out, he has no idea that his family home is now a bloodbath resembling a shoot out scene from a Quentin Tarantino flick, everything he loved wiped out in an instant.

 

Well, I say everything, but of course that is not counting the blonde floozy twenty two year old from work that he has been enjoying after hours horizontal naked dancing with in the week that I have tailed and watched his every move. Me, I'm methodical if nothing else. I like to study the mark, learn their traits and characteristics, those little things that define who they are, daily details lost amidst the city lights and hubbub of noise and people. And what a sweet little thing his mistress is. I can almost hear her tears and see the droplets flood from the beautiful eyes when she discovers the awful truth that will hit the newspaper stands by the morning.

 

My hand emerges wit the silenced gun, the metal texture glistening under the sunlight as I come to a standstill right next to Ray who has stopped by the wall to pull a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. We exchange a glance as he suddenly sees the weapon and realizes that for him, there is no hiding now, no turning back the clocks.

 

" Please, whatever they are paying you, I can match it, double it.... name your price "

 

Quite understandably, the man is shaking with fear as he drops the unlit cigarette from his hand, those eyes begging my approval and acceptance like a scolded child looking to his fathers face. I'm just not the forgiving type sadly for Raymond Jacobs as I raise the silencer to within just a few inches from his right temple and reply.

 

" Really Ray. See, from where I am standing, you have little more than the pants you're now peeing and debts from the money you lost at the race track. Oh and by the way, Mr Stokes and Mr Reynolds both send you their warmest regards, and wish you to know that your wife and two children will be waiting for you somewhere in the afterlife. Hey, what's it to be, head or heart? "

 

Ray looks momentarily bemused as tears form in his eyes, " What? ", he says, stalling for time, an effort wasted on a cold hearted son of a bitch such as I. And after the silence comes the pain and as he begins to beg like an animal for his life, a mouth off all at a tangent spouting all manner of gibberish that is beyond my comprehension. Now me, I'm a tolerant man, I can suck it in with the very best of them, I can stand most anything in life except maybe the sight of a man crying like a baby. I hate it when a mark does that, I mean, come on fella, at least face your plight like a grown man and die with a little semblance of dignity would ya!

 

" Okey-dokey, head it is then my friend ", I calmly announce as I pump a single round round straight into his skull. A spurt of blood splatters across the cement wall behind, leaving a pattern like a map of Africa as the bullet pushes out with a mixture of bone fragment and brain matter. The shell embeds itself in the wall as the casing hits the floor with a glorious ping of metal on pavement. His body rocks upwards and back, falling to the ground like a sack of the proverbial, eyes registering the shock and pain of that moment of impact before I pump two further rounds into his heart. His ribcage rises one last time, the expellation of air from his lungs is loud and forced, followed by silence as the life bleeds out of his eyes. I holster my gun, checking the vicinity for unwelcome attention, though mercifully the coast is clear. I retrieve the shell casing from the ground, placing it into my pocket, and also the slug from the wall which comes out with a couple of prods of my bony fingers.

 

I hate clutter, I don't like debris and remnants left at the scene, it's just plain sloppy work.

 

The job is done, my work is finished, and my bank balance will be swollen by twenty large ones no sooner than I have contacted my keeper with confirmation of the kill. Time to vacate the scene before the cops come tumbling down upon me. The coffee is still on my mind and lips, staining my teeth and overwhelming my senses with the delirium of that Java buzz as I make good my exit. Coffee kisses from the bosses, Ray. At least you are reunited with your family now

 

As I begin walking along the corridor between the two buildings, ears prick up to the sound of coughing. Dust allergy perhaps, muted tone, stifled by a closed hand across the convulsing lips. Eyes hone in on the doorway slightly ajar to my immediate left where I stand. Dusty layers formed like a blanket through non use, finger prints and a palm fresh and staring me right in the face. I place my right hand onto the wooden textures of the old lock less door, perhaps once a storage room to one of the nearby shops, and press firmly as it creaks under protest and leaves a shadow across the floor that dances a tango of delight to the woman cowering in the shadows. Eyes meet for the first time and form a deep and abiding dislike for one another.

 

She darts past me like a frightened mouse and heads towards the network of quaint shops with faux period façades and cobbled stones. I cannot allow her to escape.

 

The hunt is on.......

.

 

Written June 8th 2011

 

Photograph taken at 08:25am inside the Caffe Artigiano coffee house in Hornby Street, just off Robson Street in down town Vancouver, Canada on April 5th 2010.

 

Nikon D90 15mm 1/60s f/4.0 iso450

 

Tamron 10-24mm f/3.5-4.5 Di LC II. UV filter

   

The theme for Macro Mondays is Old/New, and it couldn't have come at a better time for me because I've been questioning whether I'm going to continue with the relatively new Nook or revert back to the old fashioned, page-turning paper book. There are certainly advantages to the Nook reader that I've been using for the past year: compact, convenient, push a button and download a book in seconds, economical ~ all are valid reasons to stick with it. But, it just doesn't feel the same. I love electronic gadgetry, and if I'd been born in the 1980s instead of the '30s, I'm sure I'd be an insufferable geek, but when it comes to reading, something I do a lot of, somehow turning on an electronic reader just isn't the same as opening a book. It helps that I have two large book stores less than two miles from our home, and browsing online just can't hold a candle to browsing through a book store, something I've missed doing lately. Another problem is I'm now reading a book I know my wife Sammy would love to read (Fall of Giants by Ken Follet), but I can't just hand it over to her when I'm finished; she'd never read a book on an electronic reader, if it were the last book on earth. So, I'm going to buy her a "real" copy, thus paying double for one book. I'm sure I won't be tossing out the Nook, but I do intend to get back to the book store, and, if my browsing turns up something I'd like to read, instead of pushing a button, I'm going to reach for my wallet and buy it.

This white-crowned sparrow shot me a questioning look as I pointed the big lens

  

REFORD GARDENS | LES JARDINS DE METIS

  

Spectacular view associated with wind gusts.

  

Visit : www.refordgardens.com/

  

VERTICAL LINE GARDEN 2018

 

Julia Jamrozik, Coryn Kempster

 

Buffalo, United States.

  

Visit: www.ck-jj.com

  

From the plaque:

  

Drawing on the formal language of historical garden design, and the contemporary means of mass-produced safety and construction material, the project is a strong graphic intervention that aims to produce an abstract field.

  

Defining a geometric zone out of tightly spaced parallel lines of stretched commercial barrier tape , the installation introduces ordered man-made elements into the cultivated natural environment of the Reford Gardens. Through this juxtaposition, a dialogue between the two spheres is created based on the shared theme of protection and necessary safe-guarding while questioning the definition of what is truly natural.

  

As one approaches and then walks around and through the installation the changing viewpoint will allow the shifting of the tape lines in space and thus varied views of the overall composition. Further the movement of the lines with the changing of the climate, the wind and the sun will ensure a dynamic optical and auditory engagement for the audience. As visitors enter and inhabit the space by occupying the provided loungers, the fluctuating appearance of the installation is further enhanced.

  

In the 2015 version of the garden, we have decided to alter the colours of the field and provide and to provide canpy elements which will not only provide shade but also give a different experiential perspective of the banner tape.

  

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Texte de la plaque:

  

S'appuyant sur le langage formel de la conception du jardin historique, sur des moyens modernes de sécutité et sur des matériaux de construction produits en massa, le projet se veut une intervention graphique cherchant à créer un champs abstrait.

  

Des lignes parallèles de rubans de sécurité étroitement espacés définissent une zone géométrique. Cette installation d’éléments ordonnés prend place dans un milieu d’aspect naturel. Par cette juxtaposition, un dialogue entre les deux se crée basé sur le thème commun de la protection et de la sauvegarde , tout en s’interrogeant sur la définition de ce qui est vraiment naturel.

  

En s’approchant, en marchant autour et au travers le jardin, le point de vue change, ce qui permet le déplacement des lignes dans l’espace pour offrir de nouvelles perspectives sur la composition globale. Outre le mouvement des lignes, les changements de climat, le vent et le soleil procurent aux visiteurs des expériences visuelles et auditives dynamiques. Lorsque les visiteurs entrent et habitent l’espace en s’assoyant sur les chaises, l’aspect fluctuant de l’installation est renforcé.

  

Dans la version 2015 du jardin, les couleurs des rubans sont différentes et trois canopées ont été ajoutés. Ce qui va non seulement fournir de l’ombre mais aussi offrir une perspective expérientielle différente sur les rubans de sécurité.

  

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Visit : www.refordgardens.com

  

From Wikipedia:

  

Elsie Stephen Meighen - born January 22, 1872, Perth, Ontario - and Robert Wilson Reford - born in 1867, Montreal - got married on June 12, 1894.

  

Elsie Reford was a pioneer of Canadian horticulture, creating one of the largest private gardens in Canada on her estate, Estevan Lodge in eastern Québec. Located in Grand-Métis on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River, her gardens have been open to the public since 1962 and operate under the name Les Jardins de Métis and Reford Gardens.

  

Born January 22, 1872 at Perth, Ontario, Elsie Reford was the eldest of three children born to Robert Meighen and Elsie Stephen. Coming from modest backgrounds themselves, Elsie’s parents ensured that their children received a good education. After being educated in Montreal, she was sent to finishing school in Dresden and Paris, returning to Montreal fluent in both German and French, and ready to take her place in society.

  

She married Robert Wilson Reford on June 12, 1894. She gave birth to two sons, Bruce in 1895 and Eric in 1900. Robert and Elsie Reford were, by many accounts, an ideal couple. In 1902, they built a house on Drummond Street in Montreal. They both loved the outdoors and they spend several weeks a year in a log cabin they built at Lac Caribou, south of Rimouski. In the autumn they hunted for caribou, deer, and ducks. They returned in winter to ski and snowshoe. Elsie Reford also liked to ride. She had learned as a girl and spent many hours riding on the slopes of Mount Royal. And of course, there was salmon-fishing – a sport at which she excelled.

  

In her day, she was known for her civic, social, and political activism. She was engaged in philanthropic activities, particularly for the Montreal Maternity Hospital and she was also the moving force behind the creation of the Women’s Canadian Club of Montreal, the first women club in Canada. She believed it important that the women become involved in debates over the great issues of the day, « something beyond the local gossip of the hour ». Her acquaintance with Lord Grey, the Governor-General of Canada from 1904 to 1911, led to her involvement in organizing, in 1908, Québec City’s tercentennial celebrations. The event was one of many to which she devoted herself in building bridges with French-Canadian community.

  

During the First World War, she joined her two sons in England and did volunteer work at the War Office, translating documents from German into English. After the war, she was active in the Victorian Order of Nurses, the Montreal Council of Social Agencies, and the National Association of Conservative Women.

  

In 1925 at the age of 53 years, Elsie Reford was operated for appendicitis and during her convalescence, her doctor counselled against fishing, fearing that she did not have the strength to return to the river.”Why not take up gardening?” he said, thinking this a more suitable pastime for a convalescent woman of a certain age. That is why she began laying out the gardens and supervising their construction. The gardens would take ten years to build, and would extend over more than twenty acres.

  

Elsie Reford had to overcome many difficulties in bringing her garden to life. First among them were the allergies that sometimes left her bedridden for days on end. The second obstacle was the property itself. Estevan was first and foremost a fishing lodge. The site was chosen because of its proximity to a salmon river and its dramatic views – not for the quality of the soil.

  

To counter-act nature’s deficiencies, she created soil for each of the plants she had selected, bringing peat and sand from nearby farms. This exchange was fortuitous to the local farmers, suffering through the Great Depression. Then, as now, the gardens provided much-needed work to an area with high unemployment. Elsie Reford’s genius as a gardener was born of the knowledge she developed of the needs of plants. Over the course of her long life, she became an expert plantsman. By the end of her life, Elsie Reford was able to counsel other gardeners, writing in the journals of the Royal Horticultural Society and the North American Lily Society. Elsie Reford was not a landscape architect and had no training of any kind as a garden designer. While she collected and appreciated art, she claimed no talents as an artist.

  

Elsie Stephen Reford died at her Drummond Street home on November 8, 1967 in her ninety-sixth year.

  

In 1995, the Reford Gardens ("Jardins de Métis") in Grand-Métis were designated a National Historic Site of Canada, as being an excellent Canadian example of the English-inspired garden.(Wikipedia)

  

Visit : en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elsie_Reford

  

Visit : www.refordgardens.com/english/

  

LES JARDINS DE MÉTIS

  

Créés par Elsie Reford de 1926 à 1958, ces jardins témoignent de façon remarquable de l’art paysager à l’anglaise. Disposés dans un cadre naturel, un ensemble de jardins exhibent fleurs vivaces, arbres et arbustes. Le jardin des pommetiers, les rocailles et l’Allée royale évoquent l’œuvre de cette dame passionnée d’horticulture. Agrémenté d’un ruisseau et de sentiers sinueux, ce site jouit d’un microclimat favorable à la croissance d’espèces uniques au Canada. Les pavots bleus et les lis, privilégiés par Mme Reford, y fleurissent toujours et contribuent , avec d’autres plantes exotiques et indigènes, à l’harmonie de ces lieux.

  

Created by Elsie Reford between 1926 and 1958, these gardens are an inspired example of the English art of the garden. Woven into a natural setting, a series of gardens display perennials, trees and shrubs. A crab-apple orchard, a rock garden, and the Long Walk are also the legacy of this dedicated horticulturist. A microclimate favours the growth of species found nowhere else in Canada, while the stream and winding paths add to the charm. Elsie Reford’s beloved blue poppies and lilies still bloom and contribute, with other exotic and indigenous plants, to the harmony of the site.

  

Commission des lieux et monuments historiques du Canada

 

Historic Sites and Monuments Board of Canada.

 

Gouvernement du Canada – Government of Canada

  

© Copyright

 

This photo and all those in my Photostream are protected by copyright. No one may reproduce, copy, transmit or manipulate them without my written permission.

 

This shot of a Snowy Egret was taken at W. Ninth Street, Santa Rosa, CA

 

Have a fabulous weekend everyone!