Tube indicator having a moment, King's Cross. Complete with (allegedly artistic) overexposure.

The stuttering is from my frozen fingers. it's about 5 below now, about an hour after I took the photo. Fumbling around in the dark with bare fingers on tripod, exposed metal and camera controls just about did me in. It was sort of silly anyhow. I only had an 80-200 zoom, not long enough to do a really detailed closeup of the Moon. Rather than do something half-assed at the long end of the range, I zoomed back to 80mm and went for an impressionistic image of the moon in the trees with stars, cranking up the ISO to add a bit of pointillistic noise for atmosphere. I'm not sure it works, but for me it's a visual reminder of a really beautiful moment. After partially defrosting my fingers, T and I went back out in the icy darkness, no longer messing around with hardware, but just looking up at the cold, clear panorama of a magical winter sky with our own eyes.

Goethe, a New Pantomime, in The poetical works of Edward Vaughan Kenealy (1875).

archive.org/details/poeticalworksofe02kene

archive.org/stream/poeticalworksofe02kene#page/334/mode/2up

archive.org/stream/poeticalworksofe02kene#page/336/mode/2up

Mephistopheles, (to Goethe.)

What do you think of this horrible Beldam ?

Thus to chatter — fie, for shame !

Is she not a monstrous hunter?

Shall I make you a little game ?

To Bellona.

Now then old Wickedness, what brings thee hither ?

Looking, methinks, more ugly than a Harpy.

Bellona.

O ! thou base and blear-eyed Hangman,

Rakehell, Hector, Squint-eye, Shark,

Bubble, Addlepate, Snip, Bumpkin,

Dog-heart, is it thus you bark ?

Mephistopheles.

Jilt, Coquette, Shrew, Vixen, Hussy,

Slattern, Fish-fag, Trollop, Drab,

Harridan, Virago, Scarecrow,

Cease your low and vulgar gab.

Bellona.

Blunder-head, Hunks, Cutthroat, Fumbler,

Jesuit, Lackbrain, Madman, Drone,

Antic, Blusterer, Cackler, Toper,

Won't you let the sex alone ?

THE MOON SPHERE. 335

Mephistopheles.

Beldam, Gadabout, Jade, Gipsy,

Tribad, Hoyden, Skinflint, Quean,

Fidget, Flirt, Minx, Doxy, Callet,

Ne'er was such a Granny seen.

Bellona.

Bow-legged Boozer, Ape, Apostate,

Chicken-hearted Maffler, Grub,

Numskull, Slanderer, base Skedaddler,

Dare you thus a lady snub ?

Mephistopheles.

Flaunter, Harlot, Minion, Blowen,

Pinchgut, ducklegged Strumpet, Hag,

Hatchet-face, Night-walker, Wanton —

Is it thus your tongue you wag ?

Bellona.

Buffle-headed sophist, Gabbler,

Reptile, Squabbler, Puppy, Sneak,

Blobberlip, Wasp, Crackbrain, Buffer,

Shame upon you thus to speak !

Mephistopheles.

Gibcat, She-dog, Mother-abbess.

Brimstone, Termagant, Witch, Thief,

Fright, She-dragon, wrinkled Tabby,

Cut this beastly quarrel brief.

336 A NEW PANTOMIME.

Bellona.

Ass-head, Blackmoor, Cuckoo, Dotard,

Splay foot, Yelper, wry-necked Wretch,

Skulker, Flunky, Horse-face, Stuffgut,

Heaven make me thy Jack Ketch !

Mephistopheles.

Whipster, Gorgon, Pug-nose, Dog-face,

Hair-brained Trull, Grimalkin, Flirt,

Demirep, Lacedmutton, Gadder;

Do give over flinging dirt.

Bellona.

Blusterer, Saucebox, Smell-feast, Weasel,

Swasher, Swaggerer, Princock, Chuff,

Trickster, Shuffler, Lazar, Bow-leg,

Hast thou not yet had enough ?

Tell-tale, Jillet, Vagrant, Fibber,

Blouze, Coquette, Slut, Gaptooth, Cow ;

Grannum, Henpecker, Empusa —

Aside.

Faith ! I must give over now.

Bellona.

Fuddler, Slimgut, Tippler, Thickskull,

Spitfire, Sponger, Upstart, Clumps,

Costard, Couple-beggar, Duffer,

You look handsome in your dumps.

Snob, Poltroon, Dwarf, Fool, Gull-catcher,

Loggerhead, Impostor base ;

Juggler, Crookback, limping Cripple,

THE MOON SPHERE. 337

Broken nose and Pimple-face,

Poor lickspittle, frowsy fellow,

Bastard brat with stinking breath :

Cur, Curmudgeon, Chuffcat, Cuckold,

Baldpate, Dirt, I'll be your death.

Frosty-face barbarian, Savage,

Codger, Spooney, Fogie, Ass,

Vile Mohock, Screw, Gaby, Gudgeon,

Did you hope scot-free to pass ?

Lily-livered Tosspot, Lubber,

Crackhemp, Cullion, Blabber, Boor,

Vile bog-trotter, Whipper-snapper,

You're a pretty god, I'm sure.

Dastard, Donkey, Whifner, Shaveling,

Base skipkennel, Loafer, Bull-head,

Foul footlicker, Skimble-skamble,

Have I put sense in your dull-head ?

Shatter-pate, Swinge-buckler, Boggier,

Chatterpie, Bamboozler, Dodger,

Meacock, Buzzer, poor Fopdoodle,

You're a pretty first floor lodger !

Snuffler, Loggerhead and Splutterer,

Beetlebrow, Gull-catcher, Viper ;

Hiccius-doccius, bull-eyed Stutterer,

I will make you pay the piper.

Mephistopheles.

Let us be off : I own I'm fairly beaten.

West coast of Ireland on Achill Island taken last September. A slow stutter speed with a yellow filter on Fuji Acros 100 developed in Rodinal Hasselblad and 60mm lens.

NEW YORK, NEW YORK - JUNE 12: <> attends the American Institute For Stuttering 17th Annual Gala Hosted By Emily Blunt on June 12, 2023 in New York City. (Photo by Bryan Bedder/Getty Images for American Institute for Stuttering)

Silverlake, Los Angeles, March 2011

The Guillotines

Available now @ Exposeur

Main Store - slurl.com/secondlife/Reek/178/209/23

Marketplace - marketplace.secondlife.com/stores/16816

Mixophyes balbus. Dorrigo National Park, Dorrigo, NSW.

Read the write-up on The Brothers Brick.

Stuttering Barred Frog (Mixophyes balbus), Mid-north Coast, New South Wales.

It was very dry in the forest this time of the year and one of the creeks had no water except for a small pool with tadpoles of this species. I spotted this juvenile sitting a few metres away in the leaf litter where it had begun to develop the characteristic blue upper-eye of the adult.

The Dodo is a fictional character appearing in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. Carroll, who's real surname was Dodgson had a stutter and very frequently pronounced his name "Do-do-dodgson".

[14:49] Caty Weezles: The sights of the man she loathed right now had her running ... away. She ducked into the first opening she saw and cowered there for a moment. Peering through the gates on occassion. Back to Elise.

[14:51] Elise Capalini sits in the graveyard quiet when everyone has gone, near the fresh grave that Eamon dug for the birds. One crow. a baby from the looks of it, flies down from the masoleum's roof, to sit on the grave and nose at the dirt. She watches the bird and thinks of the Mass that just was. She wonders if they will ever have a normal one again. She looks up when she hears movement, and catches sight of Caty, who appears to be running from someone. "Caty...are you all right?" she asks. She stands slowly, but doesn't yet approach.

[14:54] Caty Weezles: The familiar voice through the air had her turning, she shook then and backed into the wall, chocolate eyes looking to Elise as a threat too. There over her shoulder was a small bag. It didn't look full by any means. And under her arm she carried a small treasure chest music box. It chimed as she thudded against the concrete. "Go.. go..." She actually stuttered.

[14:57] Elise Capalini watches Caty turn and hears the faint music from her bag when she rocks against the wall. "Are -you- going?" she asks her. Judging by the running and the bag, she wonders if the girl is running away from home. She takes a couple steps forward, though slowly, and keeps her hands visible, not wanting to frighten the girl any more than she already is.

[15:00] Caty Weezles spread one arm across the wall, feeling it for length and how far she could creep before turning and bolting. Terror filled her eyes, the music chiming in now and then. The music was wound too tight, for too long, too many times and was now offkey of the normal soothing music it once played. She shook her head some, her voice croaked, "You go 'way. Cats are bad."

[15:02] Elise Capalini stays where she is and doesn't come any closer. She hates hearing those words from Caty; they feel like a physical blow. She sinks back to the ground, her shoulders slumped. "Why are cats bad, Caty?" she asks softly. "The gate there is open--if you need to run..." She doesn't want the girl to run, but understands well the need to, the need to know escape was an option.

[15:06] Caty Weezles: Tears already threatened to spill down her cheeks. She was ready to go wherever it was they were going to. She thought she was leaving somewhere, "You shooted my Daddy. Daddy says cats are bad! You have to go to jail and Mister Eamon too!" She shouted across the way. It was a choking shout, the kind where you can't catch your breath to get the words out in one stream. "God shouldn't miss next time!"

[15:09] Elise Capalini's throat tightens at the sound of Caty's voice. Oh she'd sounded like that a time or two herself. She blinks, unshed tears stinging her own eye. "I shot your daddy," she says and nods. "Because he was shooting at Eamon--because..." She draws in a breath and closes her eye for a moment. When she looks at Caty again, she says, "You're angry because we hurt someone you love. We acted the way we did because...we were hurt, too."

[15:13] Caty Weezles shook her head frantically as those tears dripped. She sniffed heavily and shot her arm out pointing and accusing, "You made blood! BLOOD! Blood makes people go away, you tried to make my daddy go away! Mister Eamon tried to make my daddy go away! God taked my mommy and I has to keep my daddy! YOU DONT GET TO TAKE MY DADDY! GOD CANT HAVE HIM TOO!" She screamed and shook. Clutching the music box as tightly as she could. It's sour notes somehow lifting high and matching the tension.

[15:16] Elise Capalini finds herself nodding, at everything Caty says. "Blood does make people go away," she says, lifting a hand to wipe the spilled tears from her cheek, "My daddy went away in blood." That night cuts across her vision and she takes a shuddering breath. "Caty, I'm so sorry...so sorry." Her voice breaks and she finds herself crying freely now, letting herself feel the fear from last week, showing Caty how it touched her too.

[15:19] Caty Weezles sucked in a hitched breath. Simply asking in that same choked voice, "Why Miss Elise? Why do you want to make my daddy go away from me?" Her nose stuffed, she wiped at it with the back of her hand.

[15:23] Elise Capalini lifts her head and wipes her cheek again. She presses her mouth into a thin line and exhales a shaky breath. "Not from you, Caty, never from you." Was Forge truly her father? She still couldn't fathom it, but -Caty- believed he was and that was all she needed to know. "He hurt...he was hurting someone I love," she whispers.

[15:24] Janeiro Renard walked slowly long the road infront of the cemetary, blue smoke wreathed around his head. He paused, spotting Caty through the bars of the wrought iron gate, and then spotted Elise, crying? His face remained impassive. Well. There was a lot to cry about these days.

[15:26] Caty Weezles: How many times had she heard this, and she repeated it. Lifting her chin to suck in a deep breath. She'd release the wall then and eyes turned narrow on Elise, "That makes it okay? To hurt cause you hurt?" How many times had her mother told her? "Not okay. Not OKAY! That's my daddy."

[15:29] Elise Capalini draws in another uneven breath and releases it slow. She nods at Caty, catching sight of Jan beyond her, wreathed in smoke like he's just stepped out of the underworld. "You're right, Caty--it's not right. I screwed up." She eyes the little girl, her own tears starting to subside. "I did something bad. What should my punishment be?"

[15:30] Janeiro Renard heard the girl's voice, and frowned deeply, as he began to trudge forward down the road. Punishment, he mused. Trying to do the right thing in this city is punishment enough.

[15:33] Caty Weezles blinked. Swollen eyes were red and looked as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders just then. Staring at Elise's form. She

settled some, her voice softened from the scream and accusatory tone, "You..." Sniff, "You has to go to jail. You and Mister Eamon has to go to jail cause you're bad. You shooted him. You made Mister Andrei go to sleep and not wake up." Confused still. "You has to say sorry to people you hurts."

[15:37] Elise Capalini folds her hands into her lap, but breathes easier when Caty's tone softens. "If someone hurts someone else...they have to say sorry?" she asks, trying to make sure she understands what Caty is saying. "The police are investigating the shooting, Caty, but they haven't come to arrest anyone yet."

[15:42] Caty Weezles: "But you shooted him. I sawed it. And Mister Lazyrus too cause he hurted me," She took a step forward. Staring down the form that was Elise, not wavering but she was tired. So tired of having to explain the world to adults. They were supposed to -know-. "You has to go there now cause you made him mad and made him bleed." She nodded though, "Yes, you have to say sorry. And you has to say that you won't do it again and /means/ it." Shoulders slumped and she ran fingers over the music box.

[15:45] Elise Capalini nods at Caty, wiping at her own cheek to dry more tears. She sniffles a little, very tired herself. "Does that mean your daddy has to say sorry, too? Lying is something people need to say sorry for too, right, Caty? Will he say sorry to me and Eamon?"

[15:48] Caty Weezles shoved at her face matching Elise' actions. Heel of her palm dragging across freckles, "Lying is little. Shooting is big." She canted her head, "Daddy doesn't lie to me. Daddy tells me whats right. Tinkerbell too. She was right too!"

[15:53] Elise Capalini watches Caty and exhales; she knows there will be no budging her mind on the matter of Forge and his honesty. "Everyone can only tell you what -they- think is right, and everyone will have a different opinion." She wondered if the girl would understand that. She dries her hand on her skirt , fingers tight in the fabric. "I have your picture, Caty." She would draw out the folded piece of paper and show it to her. "I found it in the pews."

[15:58] Caty Weezles: She would approach, hefting the bag onto her shoulder and clutching the music box. It still wasn't heavy. Something she could carry easily on a normal day. Today was in no way normal now. Everything since last week had tossed normalcy out the window for her. She peered down onto the page and shook her head when she looked onto the angel, "God taked her and Tinkerbell is going to be my mommy now and we has to go away again. Cause of blood. Cause of blood we all has to go away again. Caty didn't trip this time." She was okay with the fact that she didn't cause it. "Mister Eamon and Miss Elise made the blood. Mister Eamon and Miss Elise made us go 'way." Those brown eyes looked to Elise' and searched. She had stopped calling Eamon Father in the past week, she had stopped believing in many things. God's love - gone. Vanished with the sound of the gunshot. Her innocence, part of it, went too.

[16:04] Elise Capalini spreads out the drawing on the walk beside them, very careful of how she moves when Caty comes closer. Caty didn't trip this time, she thinks, and looks up at the little girl, wondering exactly what that means. "If Eamon and I go to jail, and you and daddy and Tinkerbell go away...that will make things better?" she asks. She looks into Caty's chocolate eyes, wondering how to bridge this chasm between them. "Caty...I'm sorry." Her voice is very soft, and sincere. The depth of what she's done to this girl hits her then, like a punch. "I mean it. I'm sorry for hurting you last Sunday. I never meant to do that."

[16:10] Caty Weezles: "No!" She stared at the picture for another moment, "You and Mister Eamon has to go to jail and WE stay then. That's how it works." She shuffled back again. Further away. A leary look given to Elise, "Maybe sometimes sorry isn't good enough. Maybe sometimes ..." She started to choke again, mouth opened and closed gasping for air, "It hurts so bad and it hurted." She shoved again at her cheek, "Your daddy went away. You know don't make blood. It hurts." Fingers found the key to the music box and she twisted it.

[16:15] Elise Capalini says softly, "Oh," and starts to fold the picture back up. She watches the paper, rather than Caty, feeling there is nothing to be said. Forge's hold on her is absolute. She wants to comfort the girl, hug her and calm her, but knows that touching her would be entirely the wrong thing. "The police will decide if we go to jail," she eventually says, the paper moving with a soft whisper against the stone. Her black nails gleam as she smooths a fold down. "Blood does hurt...sometimes it doesn't make sense, either."

[16:20] Caty Weezles: The bag shifted with her thumbs, she felt like she won something in some way. She was right. Blood hurt and Elise knew it. A huff of air blown out into a long stream and she started to back away. Her eyes were intense, pupils dialated and fixed on her. Reflecting emotions that they were both feeling in some way - somehow they shared the hurt from different sides. She tucked her chin to her chest, softly spoke, "You made Caty go away."

[16:25] Elise Capalini makes a final fold in the paper, and the paper slices into her finger. Blood wells bright against her pale flesh, and then soaks quickly into the paper itself. She winces at the sting of it, closing her hand into her skirt to stop the blood. She nods at Caty as the girl backs away. "I made Caty go away," she whispers, and bows her head, unable to look at the girl. "But Caty...not -all- cats are bad...don't think that. They're not." Her voice is choked with tears; there's little more she can say.

[16:30] Caty Weezles: She stared at folds of a memory as the blood laced Elise's white hand, one last word, "Elise has to go away now. Blood stains. And Elise goes away." Was only slightly above a whisper as she backed away. Far from the scenes others had seen her make about people bleeding. Right now, Elise -could- bleed ... it was okay.

[16:34] Elise Capalini swallows hard. "Elise goes away," she murmurs. She frowns and looks up, eye locking on Caty. She stands up and takes a step backward. "Goodbye, Caty." She doesn't pick up the paper; she leaves it on the walk as she heads back toward the church. Though not inside...she doesn't want to be inside just now.

NEW YORK, NEW YORK - JULY 11: <> attends the 2022 Freeing Voices, Changing Lives Gala at Guastavino's on July 11, 2022 in New York City. (Photo by Dimitrios Kambouris/Getty Images for American Institute for Stuttering)

the horizon, and even the middle distance, really stuttering.

If you really want to see what I mean, view it in 'original' dimensions (10800 x 2460, under the 'download' button, then 'view all sizes'), find the horizon and scroll right-to-left.

All sizes!

DON’T TRUST ANYONE UNDER 30 | WWW.W139.NL

ALEXITHYMIA II + III | PWOG DECONSTRUCTURE GRIDNIK RMX | 2009. GRAPHITE DRAWINGS | GRAPHIC DESIGN | HALVORBODIN.COM. VECTORIZATION USING SCRIPTOGRAPHER [OBJECT RASTER BY JÜRG LEHNI]. The pictures are details of the poster (118 cm x 175 cm) by Halvor Bodin. Bodin designed the printed material for W139 for the year 2005.

The Warmoestraat has been flooding the Netherlands with the latest in experimental, innovative art since October 1979. Since it was founded, W139 has been open non-stop for three decades. Over the last 30 years, a different designer/group each year has helped to shape the face of W139 by making the invitations/material for one year each. These designers have been asked to contribute to the anniversary by making a poster that will be hung in bus and tram shelters throughout Amsterdam from 28 October to 10 November. All posters are exhibited in W139 from 16 October to 22 November. There will be an opening at W139 30 October. Visit the project at W139.

The designers are: Jozee Brouwer, Bart de Baets, Leendert Masselink, Thomas Buxo, Joris Lindhout, Gijs Frieling, Experimental Jetset, The living eye, Coen Mulder, Mannschaft, Simon wald Lasowski, Felix Weigand, Esther Krop, Job Wouters, Roma Publications, Julia Born, Hansje van Halem, De Design Politie, Kasper Andreasen, Daria Holme, Will Holder, Halvor Bodin, Ad de Jong, Floor Koomen, Erwin Slegers.

W139: Space for continuous production and presentation of Contemporary Art since 1979. Dedicated to risk and experiment. Eight to ten exhibitions a year, openings fridaynight 9 pm. An artist is someone who wants to see. Not the invisible is what an artist is looking for or imagines, but the visible itself is the greatest question of it all. Shape, space and material are somewhat to comprehence, but light and colours are out of reach. The one who seeks the phenomena of art, will find an emptyness in which the gab of art theory echoes. Art is the new nature: a tree is beautiful adjacent to a river, with a cow lying beneath it and the shadow of the clouds passing by. The Whole speaks, the parts mumble and stutter. Shaping a new, living unity between works of art, space and public becomes the mission of W139 since its establishment.

It has been fun watching her make people stutter. I can't believe she's never really modeled before. Henna by rovinghorse at Roving Horse Henna.

TD: Up next is Regine! Tell us something about yourself Regine!

Regine: Uhm.. Uhm.. *stutters* I'm Regine, 20 years old, a college student taking up Mathematics. I can solve Math problems from algebra to calculus.

TD: Wow so you're definitely smart. Why did you join this contest even though you're already smart?

Regine: I.. I want to prove that I'm more than just a Math girl. I can show my other side too.

TD: That's nice to see you breaking out of your shell. What is your advantage from the other girls?

Regine: I.. I believe that in every challenge there's an solution. Hopefully I can calculate what the judges want for me to win.

TD: What a deep answer. Have you seen any competition so far?

Regine: Pa.. Paola is my competition because she's confident and has a pleasing personality.

TD: Thank you Regine and good luck on this!

Meet The Cast Video: youtu.be/nzIQhnzhmmc

YOU CAN VOTE FOR MODEL OF THE WEEK BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK:

poll.fm/45x9h

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, in a land called Tír Na Nóg there was a boy who lived in a sweet shop. He was a hapless, sweet stutterer, a nervous piebald boy, a speckled thing, pale skinned, and shy, freckled and ginger. He was a mammy’s boy, or at least one that only a mammy could love, or so he, and everyone else, thought. He was at that awkward age, although as far as he understood every age to that time, and including that present, had been awkward, in a trajectory that stammered forward, torn between the baby Jesus and Jellybean-stained rotting teeth. However, it was that particular age of burgeoning when things began to grow and nether regions sprouted rebelliously, and ginger started to assert itself around other outcrops, besides that on his crowning misery. Pubescence was raising its ugly and persistent head, dragging him away from his twin devotions to his own mother and the mother of his infant Saviour. Tumescent solace was initially found in the base of the old built-in wardrobe where he had once watched in awe as Tibbles gave birth to one of her many braces of, temporarily blind, kittens. This first solitary soiling, which occurred around midnight, as his brother’s slept in the next bed, Ruin having crept into the wardrobe to investigate strange rumblings in what he had been told (by the blessed Christian Brothers, his educators) was his 'base area'. This loaded description represented the total sum of his sex education at the time of this particular crisis. Obviously, something had snapped, something had been broken, there was a wetness. He instinctively knew that he had damaged himself and was probably bleeding to death in total darkness on that spot where Tibbles had created new life. Luckily his arsenal for such emergencies was, at that time, full, and the Blessed Virgin Mary was invoked, rudely awoken, and implored so that this cup might pass over, and that this ignominious death might not have to happen. It was Ruin Bon-Bon’s Gethsemane, and it was followed on closely by an orgy of rosaries, embracing the Joyful and the Glorious mysteries, feverishly intoned, until sleep mercifully and delicately intervened. The glowing dawn brought evidence that a miracle had truly occurred. Any ruddy stain of his brokenness had disappeared leaving just a slight stiffness in his ragged underwear. All sign of his sin had been removed by the BVM (Blessed Virgin Mary) herself. For weeks this nest at the base of the wardrobe would become a place of sanctuary and prayer, a place of devout pilgrimage and daily recitation of Hail Mary’s and Glory Be to the Fathers stuttered in gratitude for this divine intervention.

“I’m dying, I get to choose the video”.

Sitting bolt upright Jeffrey reasserted his dominance over the situation, silencing his parents. His mouth at the apex hushed the base of this inverted family triangle. That Jeffrey could sit bolt upright, at that moment, was somewhat of a miracle. His six-foot four-inch frame had been prone for weeks, reduced from its once impressive sixteen stone to a mere seven stone. ‘Singing in the Rain’ was inserted into that other gaping hole at the base of the television as Jeffrey collapsed back onto his re-adjusted pillows and his parents resettled themselves into their protracted vigil as Debbie Reynolds and her cohorts salved their shocked essences. I gasped, laughed, and loved, inwardly at Jeffrey’s delicious assertion, and made some tea to further salve and anaesthetize their whipped souls. For this was an age of soul whipping. It was a time when parents would find out, in the same week, that their only son was not only gay, but was also dying. It was a time when the usual divine-right-order of children burying their parents would be inverted repeatedly, and geriatrics would drag their weary carcasses from Virginian, or other, backwaters on invented shopping trips to the 'Big Apple', to secretly sit next to their emaciated progeny. It was a time of great shame.

How do I describe Rack? There is thirty-five years of evidence to sift through, but these were years that could be described as life lived ‘in extremis’. Maybe this is not true. I am not even sure of this. Perhaps dealing with your friends in their twenties and thirties dying all around you is normal. Maybe HIV was just our generation’s Vietnam. Rack owns this story with me, I think of it as ‘our’ story. It is not my story alone. It is simply a story, a fiction clinging onto a battered, and battering, ‘reality’.

Jeffrey didn’t die at the beginning of this tale, but I need to ‘kill’ him here. I injected morphine into his chest through a catheter, set up by his doctor in our loft in Manhattan, to help him die. There was little choice, he was about to universally hemorrhage and the only way to stop this sanguine explosion was to slow down his vital signs so that coma and release could happen, otherwise he would have bled through every orifice. His parents asked me to assist him and absented themselves to their hotel, or disappeared by going on a shopping trip to ‘Bergdorf Goodmans’. Although I was HIV negative at the time, and would remain negative for another ten years yet, his parents needed to blame me for Jeffrey’s condition. I recognize that they needed to blame someone, and I was the closest to hand. The poor maligned cuckoo in the nest is not always the culprit. These negotiations were not particularly delicate, it seemed that most accommodations were reached in a state of numbness, and we despised each other for our tacit agreements.

How do you describe ‘damage control’ without making it sound pathetic? How do you find the words to describe that accommodation which is an act of mutual abuse based on trust and which is an attempt to reverse that initial damage? The only way forward is to describe an inter-weaving, time strands taken from different ages and woven and plaited into a whole, which might describe the healed self in tandem with the healed and healing other, that is your abuser and object of your abuse. I am talking about a reversal, a road back from abuse but through abuse, it is the only way back. Attached to the Gordian knot of the self, blind and trusting, walking backwards to the healed and knowing self, to a point of innocence and enlightenment. This is what I want to attempt to do with this story. I am not going to judge it until it is finished. I am not going to allow her to judge it either. Otherwise, we would both turn into pillars of salt, blubbering salt licks.

Ok Beatrice, AKA Rack, get your blindfold on. We have some backward walking to do.

It seems that from the moment we met we were screaming, love me, don’t love me, at each other.

Time strands.

Memory has a renegade nature. It teases and occasionally attacks in blinding, apparently inconsequential, flashes. It is never persistent enough to demand honouring. It presents itself, skittishly. It never pretends or admits to its worth. It is like gold masquerading as fool’s gold, Dutch metal, teasing you to pick it up, downplaying its own value. We are prospectors of our own memories, we sieve diligently or allow it all to flow through our fingers unchecked, malnourished, and dishonoured. Prospecting is an art form. It demands discipline and commitment. Seams open slowly, they are teased open, until they are seduced and are capable of self-lubrication and discharge. Memory wants to be seduced. The first demand that memory makes on the seducer is that she be respected, no matter how skittish she might appear. The seducer of memory picks up on every sign, constantly moving forward, in the hope that he might deserve, or earn, the right to remember more.

Hail Queen of heaven, the ocean star

Guide of the wanderer here below!

Thrown on life's surge we claim thy care

Save us from peril and from woe

Mother of Christ

Star of the sea

Pray for the wanderer

Pray for me!

O gentle chaste and spotless maid

We sinners make our prayers through Thee

Remind thy Son that He has paid

The price of our iniquity

Virgin most pure

Star of the sea

Pray for the sinner

O pray for me!

Ruin’s mother had always claimed that we all have a book in us. His mother left school at twelve, though her affinity with words was never obviously lacking. It was this statement of hers that infected him early on, although there were no books in the house. She never much valued learning and when he told her he wanted to go to university her response was, "‘sure ‘n’ learning will never make you happy, don’t you know ignorance is bliss?". Even then he loved the way she simply inverted the cliché in an effort to back him into a civil service position and pension. As things turned out she was right (ish). For her, being the oldest of seventeen children, bliss was a gaggle of well-fed offspring contributing to the support of that communist whole. Too much education was the obvious enemy of this Pol Pottish idyll. The contradiction of having a mammy, who stood peeling the potatoes for her brood, in those heady days before ‘McCain Oven Chips’© made their ascension, singing ‘One Fine Day’ from Madame Butterfly, may have added to his confusion and later aspirations. The sins of the mother and absent father were to be visited on the son.

Western Rd, Penang.

Freemasonry arrived in Penang in 1786 with its founder Captain Francis Light. After a stuttering start, freemasonry picked up in 1875 with the establishment of the Royal Prince of Wales Lodge in Beach Street in George Town. By 1906, there were four Lodges in Penang including the Gottlieb Lodge, the Lodge Scotia and the Victoria Jubilee Chapter. The Scottish Lodge broke away to move into its own premises in 1917 but in the early 1920s, all Lodges agreed to pool their resources to construct a new Masonic Temple.

Designed by architect Howard Leicester in a rather grand and solid Art-Deco style (it reminds me of the old Hongkong & Shanghai Bank building in Hong Kong), the chief cornerstone of Langkawi marble was laid by W Bro John Gray Allan, a past Master of both Craft Lodges, on 17 December 1927. Inside, the floor of the dining hall is fitted with springs imported from England to accommodate ballroom dancing, as well as Masonic banquets.

Suki: *nods* "To some little Scottish chippy."

Chloe *visibly upset* "B-b-but, I d-d-didn't know he w-w-was--"

Suki (calmly): "Slow down, Chlo. You're stutter's showing. Take a deep breath and start again."

Chloe: *inhales deeply and says slowly* "I didn't know he was dating anyone serious."

Suki: "You and me both. Apparently, she's Yuri and Kumi's cousin on their dad's side. That's how he met her, hanging out at their place."

Chloe: "Oh."

Suki: "I called Yuri after Z told me the news, and she said the marriage was a shock to them all. I plan to call Kums later and get her side of it. She's less tactful, thus there will be more dirt."

Chloe: "Oh."

Suki: "I can't believe he did this! Last I checked, marriage was the farthest thing from his mind. I wonder what this Emma is like..."

Chloe: *rubs eyes*

Suki (intently): "She better pray to the surf gods I like her. That's all I'm sayin'--"

Chloe: *sobs*

Suki (surprised): "Chlo, hon, don't cry! I'm sure it'll be fine. I was just b***hin' a little. Zin usually knows what he's doin'."

Chloe: "N-n-not t-t-that."

Suki: *searches bag for Kleenex* "Then, tell me what's wrong."

Chloe: *shakes head and sobs harder*

Fashion Credits

Chloe

Re-root by valmaxi (love)

Bikini Top: Mattel - Beach Baby Marissa

Bikini Bottom: Momoko - Beach Rodeo

Sunglasses: MGA - America's Next Top Model

Necklace and Bracelets: Me

Suki

Bikini: Auntie Betty, a.k.a. watbetty

Shirt: Mattel - CaliGirl Barbie

Skirt: Momoko - Wild 'n' Sexy Tune

Bag: Cangaway (Etsy)

Earrings and Bracelets: Me

Sketches by: Alex May / DARYL_GAMMA / Davide Della Casa / Dorkbot London / Jonny Stutters / Sally Northmore / Sophie McDonald

Original music by: Jonny Stutters, edited by Davide Della Casa

You can play/modify these sketches online at: www.sketchpatch.net

Wilderness area near Prescott, Arizona, 2017.

it was all go on the lake the other day, with swans courting and chasing each other, grebes nest building, canada geese making a right racket and coots . . . well being coots

i think all the distractions may have caused this swan to lose concentration, as he tried to take off with his pall - he stuttered and fell back into the water as his friend took off!

he was perfectly fine, and flew off after a bit, even if he did look a bit embarrassed!

and after yesterdays shot – see below – gull strike again!

(PLEASE NO AWARDS OR PICTURES OR FLASHY BADGES)

TWITTER

Taken from right-to-left, as I was sitting on the north side of the train, headed west.

I really like what happened when I set the camera on my phone to 'panorama' and then held it stationary against the window of the train: (from an email I wrote) "The camera accrues the image unevenly: it's looking for motion but its internal gyroscope ("accelerometer") is confused. If things aren't changing much in the foreground, the picture 'piles up' and the horizon stutters, but water or trees close-by trigger a richer capture

This was just after sunrise. Fall colours here, and lots of standing water."

NEW YORK, NEW YORK - JULY 11: (L-R) Tina Brown and Emily Blunt attend the 2022 Freeing Voices, Changing Lives Gala at Guastavino's on July 11, 2022 in New York City. (Photo by Jamie McCarthy/Getty Images for American Institute for Stuttering)

NEW YORK, NEW YORK - JULY 11: Dr. Heather Grossman and Emily Blunt attend the 2022 Freeing Voices, Changing Lives Gala at Guastavino's on July 11, 2022 in New York City. (Photo by Dimitrios Kambouris/Getty Images for American Institute for Stuttering)

The Flamingo had his head in his hand as he said,

“Jason…I can’t believe you…” Jason’s eyes darted from Flamingo, to Scarlet, to Mason and Deb. Mason had a large rifle pointed at Jason’s forehead, making the latter stutter as he said,

“I didn’t do it. I swear.” This felt strange for Jason to say, but when he searched himself for a reason why he simply had to look to the woman holding the sniper in the windowsill. Swearing, Flamingo said,

“I’m sorry it’s come to this Jason but until we find out what’s going on you’re going to need to go back to the tower.” Jason was sweating as he thought of what to do next. Before he could make a decision however, a rock was thrown through the window. The rock broke the already decrepit window before hitting the ground. Jason looked at it for a note of some kind but quickly realized the rock being thrown through the window was a message in itself. Looking out the window, Jason, as well as Flamingo, Scarlet, Deb, and Mason, saw Roy Harper standing alone in the snow with his middle finger facing the group. He yelled up to them,

“You guys took my bow. I would like it back. Also, turn Jason Todd over to me NOW.” The Flamingo laughed as he turned in his bed to see the lone figure of Roy threatening the group. As he did, two henchmen (Jack and another that Jason did not recognize) advanced on Roy’s position. For a moment, Jason waited for the three to begin fighting, then realized that the one he did not recognize was walking towards another target. Looking around, the group saw that Roy was not alone, and had hidden the prisoners Nikki and Kyle nearby. Nikki screamed as the unknown henchman raised a hammer and a pistol. All this time, there seemed to be a winding noise building in Jason’s ears. A ringing that was driving him to do something insane. So then he did something insane: shoving Deb and Mason aside, Jason dove through the broken window. Turning his body in midair to collide with the ground on his back, he found that the snow was packed lightly and surprisingly soft. Feeling only minor scratches from catching on stray glass from the window, Jason quickly sprang into action and managed to knock the unknown goon down with a leg sweeping maneuver. Nikki and Kyle retreated from the hiding spot to a space behind where Roy had engaged Jack. Dodging the unknown goon’s hammer attacks, Jason managed to knock the weapon out of the man’s hand as all heard the Flamingo yell,

“SHOOT THEM! KILL THEM!” For a moment, Jason thought this referred to the unknown goon with the pistol or Jack (who was currently using Roy’s bow and arrow), however he looked up to see Scarlet aiming down at them. She trembled as she did, and Jason could see Flamingo grabbing her arm from his bed and shaking her around as he called up,

“Scarlet! Hold on!” In this moment of distraction, the unknown henchman managed to fire off several rounds that nearly connected with Jason’s ear. The sound made the ringing in his head even worse as Jason grabbed the man by the forehead and slammed his head into the snow below. The force of slamming the man into the snow knocked him clean out as Jason turned his attention to Roy. Jack was slicing at Roy with a small knife until the latter managed to kick the former in the hand with such force that the sound of the bones breaking were audible. Screaming for a moment, Jack stumbled, allowing Roy to grab his bow with his good hand. Placing the bow around Jack’s neck, Roy began to pull hard, using one foot to hold Jack in place while planting the other firmly in the snow. After a short period of Jack struggling, Roy moved the bow quickly, snapping the man’s neck. Jason winced at the sound, but walked over to Nikki and Kyle in order to check on them as Roy put on the quiver Jack had been wearing. Turning to Jason and the couple, Roy said,

“Nobody touches my bow.” The couple nodded furiously as there was the sound of struggling from above. They all looked up to see Mason knock the sniper rifle out of Scarlet’s hands before grabbing her around the neck and forcing his gun into her face. As he did this, more and more Flamingo henchmen began to walk out from various places around Park City. Roy turned to Jason and quickly said, “Jason we have to go now!” Jason looked from him to Scarlet and said,

“No…no no no no no we need to save Scarlet that’s the whole reason I’m here!” Roy sighed and looked around as more Flamingo henchmen began to close in on them. Thinking quickly he picked up the gun that the unknown henchman had dropped and tossed it to Kyle. Then he grabbed Jason around the stomach and began dragging him away. The group broke into a sprint all except for Jason who yelled, “NO! SCARLET! NO!” as his feet dragged through the nearly unbroken snow. Mason pulled Scarlet away from the window as the group made it a block away, but Jason continued to scream and squirm. Attempting to push Roy away and yelling insults such as ‘cripple’ at him did not help anything except to exhaust Jason who eventually passed out due to lack of oxygen. The last thing he heard was several gunshots fired off by Kyle, then Jason succumbed to his exhaustion and wounds from leaping out the window, fading into unconsciousness.

The Compur shutter from Rolleiflex Old Standard No. 403037. With the circular black facia ring removed step (84) and the control plate ring removed step (87) we reach the insides of the shutter where all the action takes place. This shutter was 'stuttering' on the slow speeds particularly 1 sec & 1/2 sec. The cause of this is a dirty shutter speed escapement mechanism: my finger points to this speed escapement mechanism and this mechanism can be considered to be the 'heart' of a Compur shutter. This piece of clockwork controls every one of the different speeds (except the shortest one and B & T) Clean it by brushing some lighter fluid petrol very lightly across it and into it with a fine brush then blow out the solvent with a jet of air from a rubber lens blower bulb. This generally is all that is required to get it running sweet again. The main problem with all these leaf shutters is that dirt and or dried down grease has got into the clockwork to stop it working. These mechanisms are extremely reliable and quite robust. Very rarely do they fail completely or break down in my experience. IF THE SHUTTER BLADES WON'T OPEN AT ALL when you release the shutter (and it just goes 'click') it's very likely grease or dirt has dried on the shutter blades and is sticking them together.Again try cleaning them with a hydrocarbon solvent such as cigarette lighter fluid petrol applied on a cotton bud or fine brush. Work the mechanism (read the WARNING BELOW first) and clean the blades with cotton buds. Let the solvent dry out completely (the blades won't open and close if they are wet with solvent). The solvent will hold the wet blades together until it dries out. [To understand this get two pieces of wet glass such as two microscope slides then put the wet pieces together and you'll find they slide over each other only with difficulty and pulling them apart is very difficult because of surface tension (caused by hydrogen bonding in the water molecules)] BIG WARNING DON'T COCK THE SHUTTER AND TRY TO FIRE IT UNTIL THE CONTROL PLATE IS BACK ON : see step (89).

from The Prodigal: 10

The ground dove stuttered for a few steps then flew

up from his path to settle in the sun-browned

branches that were now barely twigs; in drought it coos

with its relentless valve, a tiring sound,

not like the sweet exchanges of turtles in the Song

of Solomon, or the flutes of Venus in frescoes

though all the mounds in the dove-calling drought

the hills and gulches all briary and ochre

and the small dervishes that swivelled in the dust

were like an umber study for a fresco

of The Prodigal Son, this scorched, barren acre.

He had the smell of cities in his clothes,

the steam and soot of trains of Fascist stations

and their resounding vaults, he had the memory of rain

carried in his head, the rain on Pescara's beach

with the pastel hotels, and instead of the doves

the air-show with the jets soaring and swooping

over the Fair, the smell off that beach

came back on the rock-road where the turtle lifted

its mating music into the dry acacias,

and mixed with the smell off the galloping sea-flock,

each odour distinct, of sheep trampling their pens

as if their fear had caught the wolf-scent.

The rock-brown dove had fluttered from that fear

that what he loved and knew once as a boy

would panic and forget him from the change

of character that the grunting swine could smell.

A sow and her litter. Acknowledged prodigal.

Grey sunrise through a sky of frosted glass,

the great trees sodden, the paths below them pooled,

the headlands veiled and muslin-thin, no birds,

and pale green combers cresting through the drizzle;

a change of climate, the clouding of the self

in a sudden culture but one more confident

in its glazed equestrian statues in wet parks,

its railway stations echoing like the combers

in the ground-shaken caves under the cliff;

gathering, cresting then dissolving shallows

as light steps quietly into the house.

Light that inaudibly fits in the house

as a book on a bookshelf with its spines of tombs

and names, mouths slightly parted, eager to speak

wherever their station now. Every library

is a cemetery in sunlight. Sometimes, a shaft . . .

Across the dry hillock, leaves chasing dead leaves

in resurrecting gusts, or in the ochre quiet

leaves too many to rake on the road's margins,

too loaded to lift themselves, they lapsed singly

or in a yellow chute from the cedar, burnt branches;

lyres of desiccation choked the dry gutters

everywhere in the country, La Feuillée, Monchy,

by the caked track to Saltibus, over D'ennery.

Drought. Song of the wireless harp of the frangipani

that still makes a tangled music out of silence.

II

Now to cherish the depredations of April

even on the threshold of March, its sunlit eve—

the gommier maudit unshouldering its leaves,

barrow after loaded barrow, the leaves fading, yellow,

burnt grass and the tigerish shadows on the hillside,

and the azure a trowelled blue, and blue hill-smoke,

parched shortcuts and rust, cattle anchored in shadows

and groaning like winches, the didactic drought

against the hot sea that teaches what? Thirst

for the grace that springs in grooves of oblivious dust.

A fine haze screens the headland, the drizzle drifts.

Is every noun: breakwater, headland, haze,

seen through a gauze of English, a bright scrim,

a mesh in which light now defines the wires

and not its natural language? Were your life and work

simply a good translation? Would headland,

haze and the spray-wracked breakwater

pronounce their own names differently?

And have I looked at life, in other words,

through some inoperable cataract?

"What language do you speak in your own country?"

Every noun has its echo, a noun is a noise,

as every stone in the expanding sunlight

finds an exact translation in its shadow,

and it may be that you were halved by language

as definitively as the meridian

of Greenwich or by Pope Alexander's line,

but what makes this, if this is all it is,

more than just bearable, in fact, exultation

is the stone that is looked at, and the manchineels,

bitter, poisonous yellow berries, treacherous apples

that look like Eden's on the tree of knowledge

when the first noun was picked and named and eaten

and the shadow of knowledge defined every edge

originating language and then difference,

and subtlety, the snake and contradiction

and the sudden Babel of the manchineel.

III

The blank page grows a visionary wood.

A parallel section, no, in fact a whole province

of far, of foreign, of self-translating leaves

stands on the place where it has always stood

the right-hand margin of the page

loud, soft but voluble in their original language,

an orchestrating lexicon, veined manuscripts

going far back in time and deep in roots

and echoing in the tunnel of the right ear

with echoes: oak-echo, beech-echo, linden-echo,

and beech and birds a half-ancestral forest

whose metre was an ocean's and whose break,

parting declared the white-lined conjugation

of combers' centuries. This ocean, English and this forest weald,

this clattering natterer "burn," this distance, mist,

kept its high columns marching as my pen moves

towards that gap of light that comes upon

the bright salt arc of a bare unprinted beach

or where the piper leaves a print, its claws,

dim, imperceptible as an ancient rune—

that is the landscape, that, the stand of forest

made up of all these leaves and lines that

still rasp with delight with rhyme and incantation

pages of shade turning into translation.

And my left hand another vegetation

but not their opposite or their enemy,

palms and wild fern and praising them, the sea,

sea-almond, grape and vine and agave

that the wind's finger folded carefully

drawing its thumb to mark the dog-eared wave

across the dry hill, leaves chasing leaves

in a shiny, scurrying wind, and, in the brown quiet,

leaves, unraked, tiling the road's margins,

so loaded they don't lift, they lapse singly, yellow,

or chute from the cedars. Lyres of desiccation

in March's autumn, filling the dry gutters,

everywhere in the country, La Feuillée, Monchy,

except for the wireless harp of the frangipani

that still makes its music out of extreme stillness.

In my own botanic origins, frangere panem

to break bread, flower-flour in its white lilies,

except that in rare blossom I now remember

the flower is pink. It doesn't matter.

Since whatever hue it is, its wafer it serves that need,

petal on the sky's open palate at early mass

every morning but here most on this Sunday

with its Lenten drought, the heart-coloured flowers then

the caterpillars determinedly devour,

on a Sunday when a sadness still eats at the parallel

petals of my beaten heart, and the white pews of the sea,

the waves coming in aisles, my longing

for the communion of breakfast, the leafless,

flower-less but crusted bark of the frangipani,

frangere panem, the pain that I break and eat

flower and flour, pain and pain,

bright Easter coming, like the seas white communion.

IV

In the country of the ochre afternoon

it is always still and hot, the dry leaves stirring

infrequently sometimes with the rattling pods

of what they call "women's tongues," in

the afternoon country the far hills are very quiet

and heat-hazed, but mostly in the middle

of the country of the afternoon I see the brown heat

of the skin of my first love, so still, so perfect,

so unaltered, and I see how she walked

with her sunburnt hands against the still sea-almonds,

to a remembered cove, where she stood on the small dock—

that was when I thought we were immortal

and that love would be folded doves and folded oars

and water lapping against eroding stone

in the ochre country of the afternoon.

Derek Walcott

From stuttering to therapy for stroke survivors, the WSU Speech and Language Clinics provide speech-language services for community members of all ages.

Learn more: www.clas.wayne.edu/CSD/Wayne-State-Speech-and-Language-Ce...

HDR from 9 exposures, tonemapped

i dislike the "cloud stutter", any idea how to avoid (during shooting) or eliminate (post-processing) them? many thanks in advance!

Stutter.....

NEW YORK, NEW YORK - JULY 11: (L-R) Mark O’Malia, Mark O’Malia, Kristel Kubart and Emily Blunt appear onstage at the 2022 Freeing Voices, Changing Lives Gala at Guastavino's on July 11, 2022 in New York City. (Photo by Jamie McCarthy/Getty Images for American Institute for Stuttering)

This video was shot hand held with an iPhone SE II, while also shooting with my DSLR using a remote stutter release, you can hear the camera motor drive in the soundtrack. You could say that I had my hands full.

The last thing he wanted to do was to pull a shuggie, or to ash, like Angela, all over the place. But there was no getting away from it. He was just going to have to drink that fecking hemlock and see if he could survive it. It was the only possible way forward, and the thing he had been avoiding for most of his life.

He had just, more or less, learnt how to talk, or at least seemed to be at that point of overcoming his stutter. He had managed to whisper out that he would scream, it was late at night, and the next morning, his uncle, the abuser, moved out and on, no doubt in search of greener unploughed fields. Ruin was then, perhaps, 14. The ‘perhaps’ talks more about the inconsistencies of memory than anything else, that untrustworthiness. Either way, it had taken more than a year for him to find the courage, and strength, to whisper that threat, the one that chased his lecherous uncle away. It had to be a whisper, what with his two younger brothers in a second bed in that small damp room. He could go into heart-breaking details, the torn sheet (just one), the horsehair poking out of holes in the mattress, the fact that there was no heat at all, other than body warmth, and the coats piled up on the beds, but he won’t. He wouldn’t ‘Dickins’ the story either, even though he could. This wasn’t about victimhood and redemption; he was writing something else entirely. Masha, much later, asked him if was he trying to justify himself by what he was writing. “No” he answered, “that isn’t it at all. I have nothing to justify”. He could describe the abuse too, but he wouldn’t. If this story is about abuse, he thought, it will be saying that abuse is the most ferociously creative force in the universe, a life and planet-generating, gob-smacking, phenomenon. That’s the story he wanted, and needed, to somehow tell. He had made art about it for most of his life, and now he was going to write about it.

Talking of gob-smacking, this introduction is a preamble to the crux of the matter, and that day when, as a fourteen year old, he slapped his mother. He had never slapped anyone before, he was way too timid, and as far as he could remember he had never slapped anyone since. He had certainly, since, psychically abused those around him, friends or those that ended up having to look at his art in galleries or museums, but he had never taken to that helter-skelter of physical violence. At the same time, he enjoyed Patrick McCabe’s pig-boy running around the boreens of West Cork, in ‘The Butcher Boy’, brandishing an axe, killing willy-nilly. He understood that rage. He understood the draw of the chainsaw and flying body-parts. Luckily, he had art, a safe-ish place to slaughter the innocents. He knew in his heart of hearts that if he hadn’t become an artist, or if he wasn’t writing this, he could have as easily been an axe-murderer. This was not about choice at all. It was just sheer luck. The story of that other young man in Austria who couldn’t get into art school, ending up unleashing his rage on the 20th century, would be a case in point as to what might have happened otherwise. No choices were made, the world and nature intervened and fashioned that rage in accordance with its own needs, as it always does.

Of course, there was a time when he loved her entirely. She had been the chaotic centre of his small universe, a skirt hem to hang off of, a nicotined hand to sometimes hold. He remembered thinking she was beautiful, even. The abuse put paid to that. That he had spent the 40 years that followed thinking of her as his pimp aided and abetted that ‘running away’ pattern he honed to perfection in his ensuing life. The ‘Wild Geese’ became a motif he loved and felt a deep association with.

He was obviously an anxious child before, evince that stutter. When he was thirteen, his father had somehow procured for him a job in ‘The Laurels’, a bar, in Clondalkin, 4 or 5 nights a week, from 7pm until midnight. That football field of a bar is still there, though it now seems to have taken on a Swiss Chalet meets American Wild West sort of theme, broken up into smaller variations on those twinned, and oddly incongruous, genre design foibles. Then it was one huge, open, smokey place. His father, being both an alcoholic and a bar-man, had connections, so accommodations were made around the law that said you couldn’t work as a ‘lounge boy’ until you were fourteen.

From the age of 13 he began to pay his mother 4 Irish Pounds (Irish: Punt Éireannach) to sleep in his bed, to support the up-keep of her brood. He, erroneously, thought of it as 'her' brood, his father being absent, with that bottle of 'Uisce Beatha' he kept hidden in the toilet cistern. It wasn't long after this accommodation had been reached, when his mother realised that another 4 Punt Éireannach could be generated by his scooting over, and making room for her fully-matured, young, rutting-bull of a half -brother.

So begins the story of the slap, and the, trussed-up-like-a-goose, running away.

He never thought that he would get to the point of admitting to this, that slap. It was the single source of his greatest shame, and the relief of putting it down, at last, was profound.

The rest was icing.

Christopher Vestel bangs on the doors "Medical check-up, line up maggots!" snapping a glove on.

Bianca Bender sits up slowly....in no big hurry...she's been here long enough.....what's a few more minutes.....looks through the bars and shows a glimmer of recognition.

Christopher Vestel snaps his fingers at her "To the bars prisoner, if you want to be released in good health"

Bianca Bender raises an eyebrow and goes to stand....momentarily forgetting about her leg...and ends up half falling to her left side as the GSW on the back of her thigh causes her leg to give out.

Bianca Bender cringes but stands....leaning against the end of the bunk beds for support and takes a stuttering step almost falling against the bars in front of the solider.

Christopher Vestel looks at her "Prisoner, I am entering the cell, don't even get an idea your going to touch my piece" referring to pistol mostly

Bianca Bender curls her lip...and glares through the wire holding herself up while her leg gets some feeling back into it..

Christopher Vestel points to the ground "Sit prisoner..."

Bianca Bender growls...'"make up your fucking mind...." turns around and lets herself fall into a sit on the floor flinching and her face paling as the wound on her thigh screams in pain.

Christopher Vestel smirks, looking at her..."Best way to know how pain your in, is see you perform a simple act of movement, Bianca"

Christopher Vestel kneels down near her, removing a small supplies of gauze, medical tape, and septics, looking at her repeatedly, making sure she doesn't reach for the firearm....

Bianca Bender sneers..."Well pretty boy let me gash the back of your thigh a quarter inch deep and have you sit your handsome ass down here with me." growls low mumbling..."and I felt sorry for your damn offspring last night..."

Christopher Vestel looks to her, not liking that comment, he removes the stim injector from his belt "Do you want to go to sleep, or stay awake, cause this sedative will put your fuzzy ass out"

Bianca Bender rolls her eyes, "Pretty boy scared of some simple words...." curls her lip, "I've got a gash in the back of my thigh and a gash in my left arm as well....I think I'll just sit here and look pretty.....I want to go home."

Christopher Vestel nods, he takes some quick clot foam packets out "I don't have my big kit with me today, but I will patch the holes up until you get back to your Den.." he rips open a packet, dumping it into a gauze square.

Bianca Bender looks up and reaching for the sleeve of the crap shirt she's wearing easily tears the sleeve away revealing an angry looking gash on her L arm...smiles..."Tell me when you're ready and I'll stand up and you can get a good look at my ass....kiss it while your back there if you'd like...." bats her eyes up at him.

Christopher Vestel reaches over the neko, with the Quick clot in hand, he pushes it into the wound, about a whole inch deep into the wound, listening to her comments "I've seen your ass before, Neko"

Bianca Bender snorts but hisses in a breath when the quick clot hits the soar...she'd endure his shit long as he gets her out of here in relatively one piece....looks at him..."Oh really...do tell the moment you laid eyes on my fine piece of ass? I don't seem to remember that...you must not be worth remembering." attempts to stand from her seated position having to pull up on the grating of the cell door do to so faces the door and waits for the "order" from him.

Christopher Vestel waves for her to stand up "Turn around" he orders "The reason you couldn't remember me, was because I was on a roof, looking at your ass through my sniper scope"

Bianca Bender snorts..."So you're a pervy peeping tom? Don't they teach you how to shoot w/ that extension of your cock..." drops her pants as she says the last word....the gash on the back of her left leg has started to bleed again from sitting on the floor....the scab that was forming breaking open...she clenches her free hand around the bars as the rough cloth brushes against the wound...gritting her teeth..."Take a good look....next time will cost you." prays he hurries...she's on the edge...not sure how long she can keep up her facade.

Christopher Vestel takes a can from his pack, he puts a nozzle on it..."I was going to kill anyone of you, if you harmed my child" he injects the nozzle deep into her GSW, thinking of the killing spree he would go on if someone harmed his Jay Jay.

Bianca Bender hisses as the nozzle goes into her wound...."He's a brat....you let him run around like a damn ape...shit father..." had had no intention of harming the boy....he seemed a good kid...white knuckles both hands on the jail cell bars to keep from collapsing...fuck if she put people through half this pain when she worked on them.....bites her lip hard.

Christopher Vestel finishes, giving her ass a slap "Then you babysit him, cause he keeps sneaking out of the bunker" he packs up his medical gear. Standing up, obviously towering over Bianca.

Bianca Bender grips tighter with her right hand as the left is a little weak from the GSW and pulls the bottoms back up her head wanting to drop....but she straightens her spine a fracture more..."Maybe if his father wasn't a shit head...he'd stick around...or if his father's friends weren't a bunch of pedophiles...." turns and stares at the man if he looks close he can see the pain and the hope at having him be the one to show up finally but her body language is pure defiance..."Can I leave now that you're done lookin your fill and gettin your jollys off?"

Christopher Vestel says "A shit head huh? Hmmm, maybe I should leave you in here, when the morning crew comes in, ask Miss Kat about that"

Christopher Vestel grabs her cuffs, he lifts them up high enough for him to see the keyhole, he unlocks the, throwing them to the bed.

Bianca Bender almost collapses but locks her knees...and winces when it shoots up her thigh...taking a deep breath...not flinching back when he grabs the cuffs or back away from him when he comes close enough to unlock them but whispers softly...he may pick it up or not.."thank you."

Christopher Vestel sighs at her saying that, knowing helping her, can get him landed in this cell, again.

Christopher Vestel grabs her arm and tries to pull her out of the cell to the out processing door.

Lazarus Lowenstark walks away from the counter guffawing at some ignorant joke or another he was sharing with the guards. He struts down like he owns the place, and gets closer to Bianca's cell, "BEEEYANCA!" He shouts with a Brooklyn Drawl, "Get yer ASS up. Daddy had to Bail your ASS out and it cost me a pretty Frikkin' penny - and Guess who's ASS that's comin' out of?"

UCLA, Los Angeles, May 2011

Speech Impediments in Rock, Exhibit A | bigger

**

interesting: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gEaS-K3j3M8

::

Blogged at The Theory of Nevolution. Thanks!

www.ohbara.com/weblog/2011/01/on-difficulty.html

Meet Peter Joynt. Peter was performing at Hintonburg Happening on a Saturday evening. Hintonburg is a very cool community just west of Ottawa's downtown. When I arrived Peter was entertaining the audience with his rhyming, when Peter stopped performing and he spoke to the audience he had a pronounced stutter, in spite of this he was extremely confident and articulate. I took some random shots during Peter's performance but I was really hoping to get a moment with him to try and get his story.

Once Peter's set was over and he was packing away his gear I approached him. Peter was extremely polite and when I told him about the 100 Strangers Project he jumped at the chance to be included.

Peter is a graduate of Carleton University in Ottawa, he graduated with an Arts Degree in Economics. He is employed in the IT industry. In his spare time Peter devotes his time to writing music and making videos, he has worked on projects for a number of organizations including the Ottawa Senators (NHL Hockey Team), local cable TV provider Rogers TV and Ottawa Tourism. As I mentioned earlier Peter is a stutterer when he talks but it disappears when he performs. This has become a distinguishing feature of his persona and the reason he became a motivational speaker. Peter speaks regularly at schools about rapping, stuttering and bullying.

On a lighter note in 2012 Peter won a Toyota Camry Hybrid in Tim Horton's "Roll Up The Rim To Win" Contest. FYI Tim Horton's is an iconic coffee chain in Canada and parts of the US. The odds of winning this top prize were 1 in 7.2 million. Go figure!!

Thank you Peter for agreeing to be a part of my 100 Strangers Project, meeting individuals such as you is what makes this so interesting. Your enthusiasm is infectious and I wish you all the very best. I'm sure our paths will cross in the future.

There is more information on Peter at www.thejoynt.ca

This is picture #45 of my 100 Strangers Project.

You can find other photographers' work on this project at:

www.flickr.com/groups/100strangers

Rocktaves 2013

Pokemon Sword Expansion Pass ROM for PC is here. Game runs perfect with stable 30fps and no stutters.

Pokemon SWSH XCI/NSP ROM: bit.ly/pokeswshyuzupc

Official Yuzu Emulator: yuzu-emu.org/

System Requirements:

CPU: Atleast 4 cores (Higher Core count = better performance)

GPU: atleast GTX 1060 or amd equivalent

RAM: 8GB RAM (16GB is recommended)

Storage: atleast 1TB since Switch games are large in file size

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"Stuttering" Craig Skistimas of ScrewAttack. An updated version of the previous fig.

“You know I like to use that time to prepare for my afternoon classes,” she protested.

“Make an exception, for me?” he wheedled, fastening the pasha’s diamond pendent around her throat so that the lovely jewel nestled just between her breasts.

Her breathing stuttered and the blood drained from her face at the sight of the gem.

“Where did you get this?” She had gone ashen-pale.

“In Armenia-”

“From my Uncle Krikor,” she whispered, fingertips hovering over just over the pendant. “His finest work.”

“He remembered you fondly, mogliettina,” he replied uncomfortably, cursing his stupidity for not realizing that she would recognize her uncle’s necklace.

But you knew she’d recognize it, didn’t you? You knew she would know how I got it and you wanted to make sure I couldn’t hide my sins from her. Clever old devil.

“He said he liked the idea of you wearing a necklace made for a pasha’s wife while you played on the floor with our children.”

A small, shaky laugh, pitched high and nervous, escaped her lips. “That sounds like Uncle Krikor.”

He smiled hesitantly, unsure how to gauge her response, and slid his hands over her upper arms to rub her shoulders. Her body was tense, but she permitted his touch. He pressed gentle kisses against the side of her neck, working his way up to her cheek. This wasn’t the reaction to the necklace he had expected. He thought she’d be delighted to receive such a beautiful and valuable gift, that his gesture would be rewarded with affection, praise, maybe even sex – if she liked it enough – that it would make her happy; he wasn’t prepared for her to react with thinly veiled shock and horror. He hoped he hadn’t made things worse.

“He’s dead then, isn’t he; him and all of my cousins. This wouldn’t have come to me otherwise,” she said softly, unflinchingly meeting his eyes in the mirror.

He looked away first.

- The Garden Season 2

When you forget to turn off long exposure noise reduction you get interesting things. Or I should say maddening gaps in trails.

Apparently I didn't read my own "Stacker's Checklist"! In my defense, I've been shooting the Milky Way quite a bit and sometimes do use LENR for that task (see my previous post)

© Copyright 2012, Steven Christenson

StarCircleAcademy.com

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All rights reserved. Curious what "all rights reserved means?" it means that without written permission you may not: copy, transmit, modify, use, print or display this image in any context other than as it appears in Flickr.

Washpool National Park, New South Wales.

For use of this photo please contact clancywildlife@gmail.com