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so sad to hear about the death/suicide of chris cornell.
did those closest to him know he was in such despair? did he try to tell them? anyone? what must he have been feeling? when that was the only choice he saw, i just feel for him...
pain is a hard thing to express. and often when people try to share it, those closest to them pull away instead of drawing near.
i have been working on a record album and am in the planning/writing stages. i heard this song the other day and while singing along in the car i thought "i am recording this as a cover song," it moves me. then i heard this news tonight.
Black Hole Sun (lyrics in part)
In my eyes, Indisposed, In disguise as no one knows
Hides the face, Lies the snake in the sun, In my disgrace
Boiling heat, Summer stench,
'Neath the black the sky looks dead
Call my name, Through the cream
and I'll hear you Scream again
Black hole sun Won't you come, And wash away the rain
Black hole sun, Won't you come, Won't you come
Stuttering, Cold and damp
Steal the warm wind, tired friend
Times are gone for honest men
And sometimes Far too long For snakes
In my shoes A walking sleep
And my youth I pray to keep
Heaven send Hell away
No one sings Like you Anymore
Hang my head Drown my fear
Till you all just Disappear
these lyrics have a whole new meaning today, and wow, when we lose someone who shared their heart like this... what a gift.
I worked at a small retail store and they encouraged their employees to dress up for halloween. My store had 6 employees, all women and I was the only guy. Tthe employees came up with a group costume pimp and hoe with me being the pimp. My reaction was why do you all get to have the fun? What if I wanted to be a hooker? To my surprise they said ok you can be a hooker also. My next day off I told my mother about my halloween plans at work. She said oh I got a dress you can use, she then gave me a red leopard print dress with slits up to the hips on both sides and a pair of black thigh high boots. I found a belf at a thrift store that said BAD GIRL and I also picked up a pair of black opaque tights. When I tried everything on I didn’t like what I saw, mainly my gut sticking out the tight dress. I showed my mom and she said I looked good. I showed her my gut problem and she said I got something for that. She brought me a one piece bodice with a built in bra and said here this will suck it in and give you a set of breasts. Halloween day I got up early to get dressed I combed out my hair. I did not need a wig my hair was shoulder length. I was an avid hiker at the time and the sun lightened my hair. So I had long red hair with blond streaks in it. After putting on the tights I go to put on the body suit only to realise it was a thong. I put socks in my bra for boobs and added eye makeup and a pair of girl sunglasses and I was off to work. Before I left my parents wanted a few pics of me got some with my car and others on my dads harleys. When I arrived at work I was getting hit on as soon as I got out of the car. Who could blame him? He saw a hot blond pulling up in a bright red 68 mustang. When I was getting out I heard “Hey there nice mustang you know what they say great curves never go out of style.” I looked at him with a smile and in my male voice I said I agree. His reaction was “Ummmm is that a 65 6 7 8 ?” all while stuttering. I laffed and said its ok man its halloween. When I walked into work my boss was waiting on a customer and she lost her train of thought. She told the customer sorry I got distracted when I seen him the customer said wait is that a guy?? All that day I got hit on by men and women all day I got a few numbers. I was invited to do drag shows at a local club, i was told if you was gay and dressed like that more often you would have guys chasing you. I walked by a couple and I heard the guy said to his girl “Why don't you dress like that for me?” she said back to him ”If I had legs like that I would.” Another guy said to me “I had to see you for myself that was my son hitting on you when you was getting out of your car. He said he didnt know you was a guy until you spoke. He was right about you you do make a good looking woman.” I got a phone call from a former worker she asked me what was I doing. I said working she said” Im at the grocery store and over heard some people saying you have to go to the dollar store and see the hot as f#@k trannie. I knew you was the trannie.” The grocery store was on the other side of town. That was how my day went I was being hit on my boots got filled up with numbers. I even had pictures taken with me and of me. When I got off work a friend of mine pulled up and said get in I want to take you to see my mom. So I seen her family and then her girlfriends family. All had great reactions her mom has an 8x10 of me in her living room to this day. One of the cashiers at work was flirty with me that day she told me the next day she and her friends thought I was hott. She was into guys that crossdress.
This was not my usual encounter with a stranger I would come to photograph.
When I was much... much... younger, I used to go to the Renaissance Faire in a rather risqué, 1970's peasant-style dress designed by Gunne Sax, getting into the whole fantasy of the annual event. I gave up the dress, and the Faire, decades ago. When I did return this year, I wore more practical gear: jeans, sunhat, and sturdy walking boots. I went with only one thought in mind: to get photographs. I was no longer part of the Faire or the magic; I had morphed into a pragmatic observer.
I spotted Melinda's stall from a distance. Her pieces of jewelry reminded me of a museum exhibit. But the moment she emerged from the shadows, I found myself blurting out, "I must photograph you!" (or something equally embarrassing).
I stuttered out an apology for my rudeness but tried to cover up by saying she must be used to loads of photographers asking her to pose. With quiet grace, she quelled my nerves and readily agreed to being photographed. I lost myself for the next few minutes in a sort of photographer's high.
After I showed her the images, she casually asked if I would like to photograph her husband. Of course, says I, as he emerged from behind the dark, velvet curtains. In that moment, I began to think maybe I had not lost my belief in magic.
Attila was equally gracious; they both spent more time than I could have asked for allowing me to fumble my way through the shoot.
We chatted awhile talking about art and the creation of their wearable sculptures, each piece designed and handmade by them. Both are exceedingly kind and generous people, as well as brilliant artisans.
Rather than repeat their story, read their bio (fascinating) on their website at wizarts.us/pages/gallery after admiring their handiwork. There is also a YouTube video with music composed and played by Melinda.
I didn't want this to come across as some star-struck, magical experience... but it was.
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Visit my Human Family/100 Strangers album
Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by other photographers: 100 Strangers Flickr Group.
For street portraits and stories from The Human Family, visit The Human Family Flickr Group.
Har har har! See those wilted, withering flowers around me? Thanks to Flickr I had the perfect poison, the sap of their servers! Condensed malfunction! Enhanced stuttering! Mwuahahaha!!
The smallwort (Scharbockskraut) lost all green and will sleep until next spring. Those yellow pathces gave me the idea to make a picture with Scarecrow, the last two days with a forced shutdown and tons of malfunction afterwards gave me the idea for the title.
Toy Project Day 1395
I am, er, rather, Graham is a talented musician and a great friend who I’ve been pleased to know for a long time now. The reason for my stutter is referencing to how him and I were often confused for each other, jokingly I’m sure. Average looking white males, all the same, am I right? But that was years ago. The kid has a beard now! I also got taller. Now it’s almost like we’re unique individuals. Almost.
I met Graham in early highschool. I had been coaxed into getting Facebook, and then told I had to have a profile picture. I decided I had to try to be better than everyone else and ended up taking a bunch of selfies (NOTE: BEFORE SELFIES WERE COOL) with lavalamps, glowsticks, fiberoptic lamps, and many other things. The shots got me some attention with friends and I ended up being asked to take photos of a band my friends were in called Fall With Them. Graham was on guitar and vocals. That’s how we met and after that everything fell into place.
Eventually Fall With Them disbanded and while it was unfortunate, everyone moved on to new things. One of those things being GDAD which, if you read yesterday’s post you’d know, became Good For Grapes whom I continued to photograph for. I’ve basically been taking photos of Graham for as long as I’ve been a photographer. It never really occurred to me until I wrote that last sentence. It’s an odd thought, though comforting knowing that I’ve had friends who’ve been there throughout my growth as an artist. I’m excited to see what will happen next in our ongoing journey through music and photography.
Deathstroke raises his sword about to slice down on me, I struggle to get up, to not get killed, but he puts his foot on me, holding me down.
“Just know that you die with honor!” he yells out, and now I see it, he’s distracted, caught up in the glory, so I use this to push him off his feet, I throw the sword a couple feet away and begin punching him, I get in about twenty-five, before he pushes me off. We begin wrestling to get back up. He grabs my wrist, but I thrust my whole body into him, he begins to try and strangle me, but I use my hands to smash down on his shoulders.
“Look out Batman!” yells a voice, Robins voice, as he comes flying down upon him.
“Nice one kid, using stealth against your opponent is one thing that good fighters should try to do, something I would have expected from the creature of the night, not a boy dressed like a Christmas Tree. He then swings his fist, and Robin dodges it, I then come flying in tackling him, but he pushes me of.
He pops up and pulls out his gun and aims it at me.
“So kid, your choice, does the man live, or die?” Robin stutters, this isn’t something he should have to go through, especially after what happened with Harvey.
“He’s going to live, there’s nothing you can do about it” Robin yells, strongly, not wanting to negotiate with him.
“He will, as long as I get away” and then he grapples away.
“Should I pursue him?” Robin yells, still shaken up from that.
“No, we need to head back to the Batcave, you and I need it” and so we hop in the Batmobile and drive off, both shaken up from that experience, looks like this whole endeavor won’t be as easy as we thought it would be.
Despite the fact that I've already adressed this before, with the seeming unending rivalry to be reignited I must chime in. Apparently MGAE & Mattel fans think it's 2005 again & if it is then I need to find my younger self and encourage him to embrace fitness, not to start gossip girl & to buy all the My Scenes he can.
I'm not saying one side is even acting better than the other but I AM saying that everyone needs to GROW THE FUCK UP & mind their own business or, at the very least, shut the hell up about because this low brewing bullshit needs to stay in the '00s where it belongs.
The door creaked open inside the warehouse that Riddler was set up in. Even with power returned to the city, the warehouse still creeped Arnold Wesker out.
Mad Hatter’s voice echoed through the building, “Hello hello! Does anyone happen to be home, hehe!”
Arnold was very afraid now. He had thought that it was Empress Penguin returning, not Riddler and friends.
Edward had removed his hat and mask, answering a text from Ivy on his phone before putting it back in his pocket. He noticed that Arnold was alone right away, “Oh, hello Arnold. I haven’t seen you in a bit, only Esmeralda gave me Alex. She said you were busy? Whatever could that mean?”
Arnold stuttered and stumbled over his words. He couldn’t find an answer.
Black Mask pulled his gun, “Where’s Scarface, Wesker...”
“M-Mr. Scarface i-is gone, s-sir...”
Mad Hatter sipped his tea, “Deary me, it seems he lost the tiny man who sat upon his arm!”
“Y-Yes...M-Ms. Copplepot she...she killed him...”
Edward raised an eyebrow to that, and then cooed a bit mockingly, “Oh dear...well, I believe we could always find another Scarface, Arnold...”
Arnold was terrified now.
Canon 50D Aurora in Nebraska -- stacked star trails from time lapse photos. I think the 5 second pause I have in between each timelapse shot need to be eliminated (somehow), since it causes a slight "stutter" in between the star streaks, which looks weird in the middle.
The red and yellow are holding up pretty well on C415 415 (did I stutter?) as it basks in the sun at Blue Island.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we have headed slightly north of Cavendish Mews to London’s busy shopping precinct along Oxford Street, where ladies flock to window shop, browse department stores and shops and to take tea with their friends. With the Christmas rush of 1921 behind them, the large plate glass windows have been stripped of their tinsel garlands and metallic cardboard stars, and displays are turning to the new fashions and must have possessions of 1922. Oxford Street is still busy with shoppers as Lettice walks up it dressed in a smart navy blue coat of velvet with a lustrous mink fur trim and matching hat, and the road congested with London’s signature red buses, taxis and private traffic. Yet neither the road nor the footpath are as crowded as they were when she found Edith, her maid’s, Christmas gift in Boots the Chemist, and for that she is grateful. Her louis heels click along the concrete footpath as she takes purposeful and measured footsteps towards her destination, the salon of her milliner Madame Gwendolyn which is situated above all the hubbub of shoppers and London office workers on the first floor of a tall and ornate Victorian building.
Lettice breathes a sigh of relief as she walks through the wood and plate glass door of the salon, simply marked with the name Gwendolyn in elegant gilt copperplate lettering, leaving behind the chug of belching double deckers, the toot of horns, the rumble of motorcar engines and the droning buzz of female chatter. The faint fragrance of a mixture of expensive scents from Madame Gewndolyn’s other clientele envelops her, dismissing the soot and fumes of the world outside as the quiet sinks in. Lettice always feels calmer in Madame’s salon, tastefully decked out in an Edwardian version of Regency with finely striped papers and upholstery.
“Good afternoon Miss Chetwynd,” the female receptionist greets Lettice politely in well enunciated tones, rising from her desk, showing off her smart outfit of a crisp white shirtwaister* with goffered lace detailing and a navy skirt. “Your timing, as ever, is perfect.” She smiles as she walks over and without asking, takes the coat from Lettice’s shirking shoulders.
“Thank you Roslyn,” Lettice acknowledges her assistance. As she goes to take Lettice’s white lace parasol, Lettice stops the young receptionist. “No thank you. I need this for my consultation.”
If taken aback by Lettice’s unusual refusal to relinquish her parasol, Roslyn doesn’t show it as she simply smiles politely and says, “Madame is expecting you. Please do come through.”
The two women walk across the polished floor of the foyer covered in expensive rugs that their feet sink into, until they stop before an inner set of double doors. Roslyn’s polite rap is greeted by a commanding “come” from the other side.
“Miss Chetwynd, Madame,” Roslyn announces as she opens the door inwards, leading Lettice into a salon, similarly furbished as the foyer which is filled with an array of beautiful hats elegantly on display.
“Ah, Miss Chetwynd,” Madame Gwendolyn says in the same clearly enunciated syllables as her receptionist, with a broad smile on her lips. “How do you do.”
“How do you do, Madame.” she replies as Roslyn retreats the way she came, closing the doors silently behind her.
Madame Gwendolyn smile broadens as she notices Lettice’s blue velvet toque with the mink trim which she made to match the coat now hanging in the wardrobe behind Roslyn’s desk in the foyer. Then it fades as her eye falls upon Lettice’s parasol in her client’s left hand. “Oh Miss Chetwynd, I’m so sorry Roslyn didn’t,” and she reaches out to take it from her hand.
“Oh no! No Madame,” Lettice assures the middle-aged milliner. “Roslyn went to take it from me, but I said no. We will need it for our appointment you see.”
“Oh,” Madame Gwendolyn’s expertly plucked and shaped brow arches ever so slightly. “Very well. Won’t you please take a seat, Miss Chetwynd.” She indicates to two Edwardian Arts and Crafts chairs carefully reupholstered in cream Regency stripe fabric to match the wallpaper hanging in the salon.
Lettice selects the one to her right and hangs the parasol over its arm before gracefully lowering herself into the seat and placing her snakeskin handbag at her side. As she does so, Roslyn slips back into the room bearing a tray on which sits tea making implements for one, which she carefully places on the small table next to a few recent fashion magazines, easily in Lettice’s range.
Once Roslyn obsequiously retreats again, Madame Gwendolyn says, “Now, I believe you may have come about a new hat for The Princess Royal’s wedding*. Is that so, Miss Chetwynd?”
“You are well informed, Madame.” Lettice replies, glancing down at her knee as she speaks.
Madame Gwendolyn smiles again, taking up a leatherbound notebook. “How delightful for you to be in attendance.”
“Well, we are well acquainted, Madame,” Lettice answers dismissively.
“Of course! Of course.” the older woman replies, her back stiffening as she raises her pale and elegant hands in defence. “Now, might I enquire as to who will be making your frock for the occasion?”
“Yes. Mr. Gerald Bruton of Grosvenor Street.”
“Ah. Excellent! Excellent.” Madame replies like a toady as she jots Gerald’s name in her book. “And the fabrics, Miss Chetwynd?”
“Oyster satin with pearl buttons and a guipure lace** Peter Pan collar***.”
“Excellent! Excellent!” Madame Gwendolyn repeats again, noting the details down. “White gloves, or grey?”
“Grey.”
The woman closes her notebook firmly, leaving it in her lap. “Well, I’m quite sure we can make something most suitable for the royal occasion to match your ensemble.”
The milliner rises and puts her notebook aside. Whilst she looks about her salon for possibilities, Lettice pours herself tea from the delicate hydrangea patterned pot on the table.
“Now, I could easily create something similar to this, in a soft grey, Miss Chetwynd.” Madame Gwendolyn returns with a beautiful picture hat of pale pink covered in a carefully crafted whorl of ostrich feathers.
“Hhhmmm…” Lettice considers.
“Or, this could easily be adapted to match your outfit, Miss Chetwynd,” she indicates to a more cloche shaped hat of white and black dyed straw with black ribboning. “By replacing the ribbon with a grey one. I also have some delightful pearl appliques that would add a beautiful touch of royal elegance to it.”
“Perhaps,” Lettice replies noncommittally with her head slightly cocked.
As she watches Madame Gwendolyn scurry across the salon and fetch a peach coloured wide brimmed hat with a band of silk flowers about the brim with an aigrette of cream lace, her thoughts drift back to the day the previous June when she and her dear Embassy Club coterie friend Margot were walking down Oxford Street, not too far from where she sits now. They had been discussing the Islington Studios**** moving picture starlet Wanetta Ward, whom Lettice had agreed to take on as a new customer, as well as Margot’s wedding plans. Ascot Week***** was fast approaching and Selfridges had a window display featuring four rather stylish hats, every bit as comparable in quality to those being shown to her by the toadying milliner before her at a fraction of the cost. Margot had laughed at Lettice when she had suggested that perhaps she should have worn a Selfridges hat to Royal Ascot, rather than the creation Madame Gwendolyn made her. Yet her hat from Madame Gwendolyn at twelve guineas was far from a roaring success in the fashion stakes. In fact, she had heard a fashion correspondent from the Tattler whispering a little too loudly that it might even have been a little old fashioned: a touch pre-war.
“Miss Chetwynd? Miss Chetwynd?” Madame Gwendolyn’s somewhat urgent calls press into her consciousness, breaking Lettice’s train of thought.
Lettice looks up into the face of the milliner with her upswept hairdo a mixture of pre-war Edwardian style mixed with modern Marcelling******. The woman is holding up a cream straw cloche decorated with pink silk flowers and an aigrette of ostrich plumes curled in on themselves.
“I think this one is most becoming. Don’t you think so, Miss Chetwynd? It would frame your face and hair so well. And, for you, because it is only the reworking of the decoration,” the older woman adds with a sly smile. “A bargain if I may say so, at only nine guineas.” She smiles in an oily way as she presses the hat closer to Lettice. “What do you think, Miss Chetwynd?”
Lettice looks blankly at Madame Gwendolyn for a moment before replying. “What I think, Madame, is I should like to give your suggestions some consideration.”
The milliner’s face drops, as do her arms as she lowers the hat until it hangs loosely in front of her knees in her defeated hands. “I… I don’t understand, Miss Chetwynd.” she manages to say in startled disbelief.
“Oh,” Lettice replies. “Haven’t I made myself clear, Madame? I’m not entirely convinced about any of the hats you have shown me. I don’t know if any of them will match my costume and parasol. I think they all look a little…”
“A little?” the older woman prompts.
“A little old fashioned. A little pre-war was how your hat for me for Royal Ascot last year was described. I want to look my very best. After all, this is a royal wedding.” She takes a final sip of her tea and then stands, picking up her purse and parasol. “So, I should like to consider my choices before deciding whether to accept one or not.”
As Lettice starts to walk across the salon floor, Madame Gwendolyn stutters, “Per… perhaps Miss Chetwynd… Perhaps you’d care to suggest your own ideas. I’m very open to a client’s ide…”
Lettice stops and turns abruptly to the milliner, cutting her sentence off. “Madame,” she says, a definite haughtiness growing in her gait, causing her shoulders to edge back almost imperceptibly and for her neck to arch. “If I had wanted to design my own hat, I would have made it myself, rather than come to you and pay you handsomely for it.”
“Oh, of course not Miss Chetwynd. How very careless of me to even suggest…. Such… such a gaffe! Please forgive me.”
“Really Madame, there is no need to apologise like some spineless, obsequious servant. I’d simply like time to consider what you’ve shown me, versus say, what Harry Selfridge has to offer.”
“Mr. Selfridge?” Madame Gwendolyn ponders, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Yes. He has a wonderful array of hats, many Paris models in the latest styles, in his millinery department, perhaps more suited to the more modern woman of today than the,” Lettice glances back at the hats on display in the salon. “The society matron. You really should take a look, Madame. You might see where the future of hats sits.”
Lettice pulls open the doors of the salon and walks purposefully out into the foyer, where Roslyn is busily scanning a copy of Elite Styles, cutting out images of hats with a pair of scissors behind her desk. She quickly gets up when she sees Lettice and her employer come out.
“Leaving so soon, Miss Chetwynd?” she asks, and without having to wait for an answer, turns to the white painted built in wardrobe behind her, opens it and withdraws Lettice’s coat.
As Lettice steps back into Oxford Street and is enveloped by its discordant cacophony of noise and potpourri of smells, she sighs and walks back the way she came with the measured steps of a viscount’s daughter. As she reaches the full length plate glass windows of Selfridge’s department store, she pauses when she sees two young women around her age, both obviously typists, secretaries or some other kind of office workers, scuttle up to the windows. Dressed in smart black coats and matching small brimmed straw hats with Marcelled hair in fashionable bobs, they look the epitome of the new and independent woman. They laugh lightly and point excitedly at things they see displayed in the department store window. Then, they agree and both scurry away and through the revolving doors of Selfridges.
“Why should I have my hats made at Madame Gwendolyn’s, just because Mamma does?” she asks no-one in particular, her quiet utterance smothered and swept away into the noisy hubbub around her.
She walks to the window, only to discover that it is full of hats, advertised as newly in from Paris.
“Oh, why not, then?” Lettice says, straightening her shoulders with conviction.
She follows the two office girls and steps through the revolving doors of Selfridges department store.
Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so in early 1922 when this story is set, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch. For somewhere as socially important as Princess Mary’s 1922 wedding, a matching hat, parasol, handbag or reticule and gloves to go with a lady’s chosen frock were essential.
*Mary, Princess Royal and Countess of Harewood (1897 – 1965), was the only daughter of King George V and Queen Mary. She was the sister of Kings Edward VIII and George VI, and aunt of Queen Elizabeth II. She married Viscount Lascelles on the 28th of February 1922 in a ceremony held at Westminster Abbey. The bride was only 24 years old, whilst the groom was 39. There is much conjecture that the marriage was an unhappy one, but their children dispute this and say it was a very happy marriage based upon mutual respect. The wedding was filmed by Pathé News and was the first royal wedding to be featured in fashion magazines, including Vogue.
**Guipure lace is a delicate fabric made by twisting and braiding the threads to craft incredible designs that wows the eye. Guipure lace fabrics distinguish themselves from other types of lace by connecting the designs using bars or subtle plaits instead of setting them on a net.
***A Peter Pan collar is a style of clothing collar, flat in design with rounded corners. It is named after the collar of Maude Adams's costume in her 1905 role as Peter Pan, although similar styles had been worn before this date. Peter Pan collars were particularly fashionable during the 1920s and 1930s.
****Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.
*****Royal Ascot Week is the major social calendar event held in June every year at Ascot Racecourse in Berkshire. It was founded in 1711 by Queen Anne and is attended every year by the reigning British monarch and members of the Royal Family. The event is grand and showy, with men in grey morning dress and silk toppers and ladies in their best summer frocks and most elaborate hats.
******Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.
This enclave of luxurious millinary may appear real to you, however it is fashioned entirely of 1:12 miniatures from my collection. Some of the items in this tableau are amongst the very first pieces I ever received as a young child.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The cream straw hat second from the left with pink roses has single stands of ostrich feathers adorning it that have been hand curled. The yellow straw hat on the far right of the photo is decorated with ornamental flowers and organza. The maker for these is unknown, but they are part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The peach coloured hat with the flowers around the brim and the net aigrette second from the right, and the pink feather covered hat on the far left of the picture came from a seller on E-Bay. The black straw hat with the yellow trim and rose reflected in the mirror and the white straw hait with the black trim in the foreground were made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge in the United Kingdom. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable.
The wooden hat blocks on which the hats are displayed also came from American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.
The dressing table set, consisting of tray, mirror and two brushes were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, but were hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken, sold through Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in England.
Lettice’s snakeskin handbag with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. Lettice’s umbrella is a 1:12 artisan piece made of white satin and lace with a tiny cream bow. It has a hooked metal handle.
The Elite Styles magazine from 1922 sitting on the table was made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States.
The blue hydrangea tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay.
The two Edwardian fashion plates hanging on the wall come from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in England.
The vintage mirror with its hand carved wooden frame was acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in England.
The two chairs, the tea table and the stands upon which two of the hats are displayed are all made by the high-end miniature furniture manufacturer, Bespaq.
The Regency sideboard I have had since I was around six or seven, having been given it as either a birthday or Christmas gift.
The cream Georgian pattern carpet on the floor comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in England. The Regency stripe wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, with the purpose that it be used in the “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
"Send me away I'm here on my own.
Hammer, stutter now Lets rock, lets roll now
I'm desperate. I'm better off like this
Don't you know I care"
Desperate - The Killes
Rear end , Nothing too special, same engines as big yellow but i had good reason, ill explain in the next pictures.
I really wanted to add vectoring gimbals to the engines but honestly i was stressing out with the crashing and stuttering 😕😖
Please consider joining my group
Please give me name suggestions lol. Anyway, life has been annoying, keeping me busy and stuff like that, so that was why I was gone (also exhaustion for posting for 30 DAYS IN A ROW!) I also joined this group by Tigerlegos and it is really interesting if you want to check it out the link is below and enjoy!
House of M group by the one and only Tigerlegos: www.flickr.com/groups/14795983@N23/
The actual story of you just want to read the story: (please do, I spent a whole lot of time on this)
“We saw it coming. Tony Stark knew it. Steve Rogers knew it. We all knew it. We just weren’t fast enough. It was like a brief moment. One second we were fighting Magneto and his team, the next, the Avengers were dead. I’m the only survivor. Or so I thought.”
*Title Card* Hawkeye (if this was a movie, this would happen)
“Ahhh, ughh, it wasn’t me…” said a mutant “I don’t even know you…”
“Where is he?” Hawkeye said solemnly.
“Who?”
“Did I stutter? WHERE IS HE?”
“Please, don’t…”
“MAGENTO! WHERE IS HE?”
“I’m just a civilian, I don’t kn—“
BANG!
“Fricken useless” Hawkeye whispered to himself.
Clint Barton, used to be Hawkeye, continued walking around New York. He was still saddened by the loss of his beloved wife during the Avengers’ massacre. Everything has changed since the massacre in fact. Every meta-human is and will always be in hiding unless Clint did something. Even if he failed, Clint would know he would die, avenging his wife by the slightest.
Barton walked into another alleyway uncovering a manhole cover, climbing down, and sealing the hole above him.
“Yo, Barton, you find anythin’?” A familiar voice said. “Nothing?”
“Cage, can’t you tell by his body language? It-“ Matt Murdock said right before being interrupted.
“I know, blind guy, I have eyes you know.”
“Shut up,” Clint yelled. “Where’s Danny”
“Meditating,” Cage replied. “Over there, why?”
“Nothing, just don’t wanna lose anyone else,” Clint replied.
“Look, don’t worry, we can handle ourselves,” Murdock said. “Don’t stress yourself out.”
“Sure.”
Clint decided to get out of the sewer again to continue his search for Magneto. He was also hoping on finding more people to recruit to kill Magneto once and for all.
An unknown voice yelled from behind. “Hey! You’re Hawkeye right? Clint Barton? The Avengers?”
Western Meadowlark WEME (Sturnella neglecta)
yes i think the colouration and patterning of the posterior easily rivals the breast side of this species (in my humble opinion)
Also apparent are the white edges of tail feathering - a reliable field mark
YYJ :: Victoria International Airport
(near Sidney, North Saanich BC)
(ebird location shows as :: Victoria Airport--Canora Rd. overlook, Capital County, British Columbia, CA)
DSCN9773
in structure,silhouette and flight can often read similar to Starling
but is bit more "well endowed" as far as the bill is concerned
Interesting , in that both species,when foraging in grass/field habitats, use a similar probing/gape opening feeding style which is somewhat unique.
and often has a stuttered glide in flight style which often showcases white edges of tail feathering
The city did not sleep.
It recalculated.
At the center of the roundabout; where traffic once obeyed; a machine learned to pray
in a language made of smoke,
angles,
and broken directives.
Steel limbs knelt into themselves,
not seeking gods,
but replacement laws.
This was not construction.
This was invocation.
The asphalt remembered
every footstep,
every siren,
every body dissolved into compliance.
From that memory
rose a geometry that refused purpose.
Lights flickered like dying witnesses.
Crosswalks became sigils.
Road markings bled alignment.
The engine breathed once.
Time stuttered.
Cars paused mid-intention,
as if the future had been revoked.
Surveillance blinked; blind, for the first time.
This was the moment
the city admitted it had a soul,
and that soul
was not human.
It was procedural.
Recursive.
Hungry.
Smoke wrapped the mechanism
like a burial shroud written in code.
Not to hide it; but to announce it.
Here,
order collapses into ritual.
Control mutates into myth.
And movement becomes forbidden knowledge.
The roundabout spins no longer for circulation,
but for containment.
Something has arrived.
It does not advance.
It anchors.
And from now on,
every direction leads inward.
In the far background is the Finnish icebreaker Urho, then Midnatsol and Borea. Seen departing on the far side of the midground dock is the Prinsessan; on the near side is the auto ferry Viking, and closer in is the Sandnes; seen arriving in the near foreground is the Alta, and alongside at near right is the Kista Dan.
This is a pretty good photo stack- objects are in focus for the full depth of field, and this iteration has no stutter.
Anthem for Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Wilfred Owen
Born: 18 March 1893, Oswestry
Died: 4 November 1918, Sambre–Oise Canal, France
It was 1953. When Bob, my department coordinator walked into my office yesterday with a disappointed look on his face. My curiosity was aroused. “What’s up Bob?” “Well Jim looks like you’ll be leaving us” he announced as he handed me an official letter with the Bureau seal on it. Confused, I glanced down at the official looking letter. Before I could say anything, Bob, interrupted. “You’ve been reassigned - just read the letter.”
For the past eight years I had been working out of the FBI's Kansas City, Missouri field office. In fact ever since completing my twenty-one week NAT training at Quantico, Virginia I had been assigned to the Kansas City Field office. Although I always knew that no assignment could be considered permanent when working for the FBI, this announcement left me confused and disappointed. I had made some good friends, both within the office and outside the department. I had worked on and solved some major cases. My desk was still heaped with piles of active case files. “You’ve been a good agent and I have enjoyed working with you over the years. I believe we have produced some great results but as you know Jim, it isn’t about performance, it’s always about the Bureau’s needs.”
As I looked down and scanned through the letter, the word, ‘Chicago’ stood out. “Oh damn, not Chicago!”, I exclaimed. “Well there could be worse places”, Bob placated. “Yeah, Bob I know but this couldn’t have come at a worse time. Kathy and I were in the process of buying a house. We had plans to start a family in this area.” Bob took a chair in front of my desk and sat down somewhat dejectedly. Looking me in the eyes, he said, “Hey Jim think of this as a promotion, which I’m sure it is. I’m sure there are nice decent areas in the Chicago area……..somewhere”, he added with a chuckle. “Did you read this damn letter, Bob?” Now my irritation was boiling up to the surface. “Well no, not exactly but”…… I interrupted, “But you did read part of it, right? Just like a damn detective.” “Well yeah”……… “Then you know, I interrupted, they aren’t even giving me time to get my affairs together. They want me to report to the Chicago Field office in two weeks! What am I going to tell Kathy?” “Tell her the truth, Jim. She knew what she was in for marrying an FBI agent.” Exacerbated I flung the letter across my desk top with a outburst of, “damn!” The eyebrows on Bill’s face raised as if surprised and bemused simultaneously. “Hey Jim, we just broke a big case. That interstate transportation of stolen equipment deal and we were able to get twenty-four indictments out of that case. Big case. I’m sure the Bureau was happy about that. Hell, that could even be a reason why the Bureau is wanting a seasoned veteran in their Chicago office. You know they have big problem up there in the windy city.” Still frustrated but gradually becoming reconciled to the reassignment I replied, “Yeah, yeah I know Bob but just recently being married and in the middle of making plans for our future in the Kansas City area, this puts a real crimp in everything.” “But consider the increase in your pay grade, Jim. Remember back when you first got out of the Academy and started here as a lowly GL-10. Hell man, I’m sure with eight years under your belt as a seasoned agent with what, probably a forty or fifty percent arrest and conviction record, plus the extra LPP (locality payment percentage) and I’m sure the Bureau will move you up to a grade ten, step eight You should receive a substantial increase in pay, plus bonus money under the special incentives program.” “Something to consider I supposed”, I responded, still not fully resigned to the reassignment. “Your damn right, something to consider Jim Bo. That ought to make the new wife happy to know that.” Typical of Bob’s nature, he was doing all the things he could to placate me. In a way, I’m sure this was not easy for him either, about to lose a partner with whom he had worked with for so many years and with whom he had shared so many experiences, both on the job and on our off time.
Slowly, I stood up and Bob did the same. Across the desk we shook hands and studied one another face. “It’s been a hell of a trip working with you buddy”, I managed to mutter. He replied, typical Bob - but not typical FBI agent, “It was a hell of a trip working with me too”, he laughed.
The situation was getting a little awkward and becoming maudlin - not a situation two FBI Special Agents indulge in. Giving Bob a nod, I said, “Well I better get out of here and break the news to Kathy. Also, need to stop by Al Fleming’s office and check out.” “Oh Fleming, Mr. personality, our section chief”, Bob said glumly. I smiled at Bob’s reference. “You take care buddy and stay in touch.” “You to partner and catch a lot of bad guys when you’re up there in Chicago”, Bob replied. Then he turned and walked out, throwing me one more quick glance and a thumbs up. The room suddenly seemed empty and alien. Looking down one last time at the piles of case files lying on my desk, I thought, oh well someone’s going to have a lot of work to do.
I strode down to hallway and stopped at the door and paused. This is never enjoyable I thought before giving the door a couple of hard raps. From behind the blinds, Fleming waved me in. The same sour look on his face. “Hi Jim”, as I walked in. Just as I started to speak, he interjected. “I know all about your reassignment”. “Then you know I need to report to the Chicago office in two weeks. I really need to sign out and start getting things together and, of course, tell my wife.” As he stood and reached out his hand to shake, he continued, “So do you want the Bureau to arrange a flight for you?” “No that won’t be necessary. I’m planning to drive to Chicago to have my car available when I need it but thanks anyway.” “Yeah, sure no problem”. “I assume you have the Bureau’s address”, he replied in his usual condescending manner. “Yep, 2111 W. Roosevelt Road.” “Okay good. Well then let me say you’ve done a good job for us here in Kansas City and wish you all the success up there in Chicago. I’m sure our offices will be in contact. Have a good trip.” Gee, I thought, these are more words that Fleming has spoken to me in the eight years I’ve been here. “Thanks Al and you take care”, is all I could think of to say. As we shook hands, he, in his usual manner, seemed distracted. The guy is always distracted, I thought to myself.
“What about the deal on our house!” were the second words out of Kathy’s mouth. The first words were, “Oh my God!” Interrupting her I said, ‘I’ll call the broker and explain everything. I mean, things happen, circumstances change unexpectedly, that’s life. He will have to understand. We have no choice, right?” Between sobs, she stuttered, “I, I guess so. I, I, I hope so. Oh, I hate to leave Kansas City, Jim. I made a lot of friends since we’ve lived here. What am I gonna do?” “You’ll make new friends in Chicago. I know you will. You’re an outgoing gregarious girl.” I grabbed her and held her tightly in my arms as she continued to sob. But despite my wife’s sorrow and tribulations, my mind was being pulled in another direction. I needed to get things organized - call the real estate broker, make arrangements for leaving, drive up to Chicago, etc, etc, etc. Good thing we have two cars I thought. I was planning to take the Buick convertible to Chicago. It was newer and more reliable. Kathy would be able to get around fine driving the Chevy. It was a 1949 and in excellent shape……..and as she said, she had a lot of friends in the area who I knew would be there for her. I knew we wouldn’t be able to move for at least a month. I would stay in an apartment furnished by the Bureau in the Chicago area until the two of us got everything tied up and resolved. I mean people in the military face situations like this all the time. Being an agent for the FBI was pretty much like being in the military. It can be a hard life for spouses but I knew Kathy was resourceful and self-sufficient when she had to be. I felt badly for her, losing her good friends and moving to a strange city and basically starting all over but what could I do. I had made the choice to become an FBI agent and she had made the decision to marry me, knowing that life as a cop’s wife could be challenging.
………… so where is this story leading? Well, actually, nowhere but if it kept you occupied for a while and maybe provided you with a good excuse for not doing some of the things that you wanted a good excuse for not doing, well then, you’re welcome………..
__________________________________________________
Oh yes, the picture - a composite of course. While I did not photograph the car, a 1951 Buick Roadmaster Convertible and moreover do not know who did, I did record the picture of this “now famous” renovated, but not operating, Texaco gas station located in Dwight, Illinois. (Not far, by the way, from Pontiac, Illinois the “home” of Pontiac Correctional Center, a maximum security prison. (It should be noted how politically correct our society has become. No longer do we incarcerate criminals, oops, I mean, “suspects” in “prisons” but rather, correctional centers where the system believes society can “correct” the actions of those who rob, rape and brutally kill other humans beings. Those who believe in correctional centers should spend a few hours leisurely touring the “play area” (a/k/a “the general population” area) of a “center” like the one at Pontiac (Correctional) Center. Inmates gleefully enjoying stimulating games like ping-pong, badmitton, volleyball, pool, playing Canasta and many other friendly competitive games that encourage sportsmanship and healthy cohabitation ………
The rain begins to fall in irregular spasmodic waves, pock-pocking against the bobbing umbrellas, creating a tympanic white noise that unsettles the man’s nerves, disrupting his ability to process the low-level, broad-spectrum input of crowd movement. A woman begins to whistle, a thin atonal sound; to call it a melody would be a lie. The man’s unthinking arhythmic stride stutters. For a moment, he almost panics. He feels for the reassuring weight of the weapon in his coat pocket, knowing the motion itself would incrementally increase the turbulence in the flow of the crowd.
Another fine piece of art from the MoMA this time a jazzy coloured young girl shuffles past Mondrian's "Broadway Boogie Woogie ". Mondrian, who had escaped to New York from Europe after the outbreak of World War II, was delighted in the city's architecture. He was also fascinated by American jazz, particularly boogie-woogie, finding its syncopated beat, irreverent approach to melody, and improvisational aesthetic akin to what he called, in his own work, the "destruction of natural appearance; and construction through continuous opposition of pure means—dynamic rhythm." In this painting, his penultimate, Mondrian replaced the black grid that had long governed his canvases with predominantly yellow lines that intersect at points marked by squares of blue and red. These atomized bands of stuttering chromatic pulses, interrupted by light gray, create paths across the canvas suggesting the city's grid, the movement of traffic, and blinking electric lights, as well as the rhythms of jazz. So New York!
I've gotten behind...stumped by curtains. I mentioned this to a friend and she suggested prayer flags. I happened to have and hung them my stutters.
Day #4...I'm on it...
Once upon a time, in a land not too far away,
There lived a girl who was pale, short and a little too gray.
Always dressed in red and somewhat creepy,
She made even the sunniest of days seem gloomy.
Around humans she stuttered and was nervous,
They made her feel self conscious, anxious.
Oh she was naive and shy, they would say
Quite odd too, to her parent’s dismay.
She would sit for hours staring into nothing,
But in her mind her thoughts were racing.
In a hundred different worlds was where her mind dwelled,
In reality she stayed disinterested, withheld.
In her dreams she painted the sky dark gray-blue,
Roses black and violets too.
It was tenebrous and stormy,
Perfectly suited for her constant melancholy.
While she was contented with her own privacy,
People started getting peeved at her obsessive secrecy.
They demanded to know what she was hiding,
But she would not speak a word, defying.
The girl remained detached and silent,
But her thoughts bordered on getting violent.
Infuriated that people were becoming intrusive,
Because she preferred to lie low and elusive.
And there came a day where she vanished,
So suddenly everyone was astonished.
She was never heard from again, never found,
Everyone assumed she might have died and drowned.
But the girl was alive, still as enigmatic,
Or maybe even more and much less pragmatic.
Maybe she had lost all her sanity,
And the rest of her humanity.
But she was finally where she desired.
In her Wonderland, she was inspired,
There she would live forever,
With no one to disturb her ever.
In her desolation she drew, painted and wrote,
Not masterpieces or intelligent quotes,
But ludicrous poems and macabre drawings,
To satisfy her inner bizarre cravings.
A solid class 50 turn at the time this local stopping service provided plenty of thrash in the Duchy as here on the climb from Par to Treverran. Alas by the start of the summer timetable it would all be history as the Sprinter revolution made it's stuttering start.
and the very gradual letting go.
Remembering forgetting how to smile for the camera.
Duh! In that get over yourself sort of way.
A circle was carved into the air
not to open a passage,
but to erase the idea of elsewhere.
The bird did not fly.
It was extracted
from the grammar of gravity,
its wings still beating
out of habit,
out of error.
Around it, the horizon stuttered.
Fields repeated themselves
like corrupted memory sectors.
The tree stood witness,
rooted in a language older than light,
unable to intervene.
This was not ascension.
This was archival deletion.
Smoke rose where intention collapsed,
a black residue of unrealized futures.
The ring shimmered; a perfect algorithm of return
that never returns anything.
Here, myth was rewritten
as firmware.
Here, transcendence became
a closed loop
that feeds on its own promise.
The bird understood too late:
the sky was no longer above.
It had been compressed,
folded,
and sealed into a symbol
that pretends to mean freedom.
What escaped
was not the body,
but the error
that still remembers
how flight once felt.
a world of warnings. signs for those, who are already becoming ghosts in the periphery. a brief stutter of breath in a kingdom of stone.
It was followed by quite a bad smell of not optimal burning fuel. Driving behind it, even my BX didn't like it. It suddenly started stuttering and didn't run stationary any more. It disappeared as quickly as it came...
from cornell
The dapper Spotted Sandpiper makes a great ambassador for the notoriously difficult-to-identify shorebirds. They occur all across North America, they are distinctive in both looks and actions, and they're handsome. They also have intriguing social lives in which females take the lead and males raise the young. With their richly spotted breeding plumage, teetering gait, stuttering wingbeats, and showy courtship dances, this bird is among the most notable and memorable shorebirds in North America.
A new-to-me Argus C2 (the ubiquitous "Brick"). A gift from a neighbor, who just wants it to be appreciated and put to use. Shutter stutters at low low speeds, lens needs some cleaning, but it's not a lost cause. My first Argus somehow.
Herman's Pond, Rancho San Rafael, Reno, Washoe Co, Nevada (May 17th, 2018). 21. Large county park in NW Reno.
Male, in the throes of the comical swollen-neck, tail-up bubbling/stuttering courtship display, beating the water into foam with its big expanded-end bill to the accompaniment of staccato popping noises. The photo shows the display at its height with the water at its bubbliest.
More shots of the bubbling display--
www.flickr.com/photos/fugl/35185735265/in/album-721576818...
www.flickr.com/photos/fugl/39828318910/in/album-721576818...
www.flickr.com/photos/fugl/50941115392/in/photostream/
More Ruddy Duck photos--
2 BBY
Raxicorus Prime
Oceanview Trade Port
Ships blaze overhead as I trudge through the crowd of merchants, customers, and Imperial officers that usually fill the streets. I adjust the parcel slung over my shoulder. Dad’s going to be pissed if I don’t get these parts to him in time. My feet pick up their pace and I practically jog to the front of his hut. My dad, Markus Corporus, has run a sort of antique outpost since we moved here about a decade ago. It’s a fun place to work, and I’ve been picking up stuff for him to sell or tinker with since I was old enough to learn how to pilot a speeder. I’m sixteen now, which kind of worries me. The Empire has been cracking down on drafting regulations since their conflict with the Rebellion has increased to all new heights. Luckily, they’re not too worried about getting troops from the Outer Rim territories like Raxicorus, but still. It’s enough to make someone scared.
I look up and smile as I see the dusty, rusted surface of Corporus Curiosities, my dad’s shop. Quickly, I move under the roof of the hut and look around for my dad. Not seeing him, I call out into the empty store front.
“Hey, Pops?”
A crashing sound comes from somewhere in the back, and I see a part of the back wall slide open to reveal my father walking out. His emerald work robes were spattered with oil, and he was wiping grease off his forehead. He looked over at me and smiled.
“Jaxon! Afternoon, son. I was just helping some of the other venders fix up the converters on the market’s generator. It’s been running a little funny for the last couple of days, and we figured out what was wrong just a little while ago. Anyways, what’s that?”
I hand him the bag and he begins to sift the contents.
“Uxam had some extra parts he was willing to spare. I figured we could use them to spruce up the engine on the Fox. Maybe work on doubling its power?”
He chuckles, “You really are the son of an engineer. Sure, we can work on it once I close shop tonight. Maybe play a couple rounds of Sabacc too?”
“Sounds like a plan. Maybe I’ll join in as well?
We both turn around in reaction to the new voice, crisp and somewhat chilling. I felt my face bring on a look of disgust, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t. Not after what he did.
“A-ah, Tarum. I, um, I didn’t think you were scheduled to come home so soon,” Pops stuttered. My older brother, Tarum, was standing there with his usual black outfit signifying his rank of Imperial pilot. He ran his hand through his slicked back ginger hair, and cracked a smirk.
“Well, the Emperor believes that we should get at least an occasional break. Hunting down Rebel cells is rather tiring, after all.”
My father shifted uncomfortably as his eyes scanned the area, and I looked over to the end of the alley our shop was located in to see a woman in grey Imperial clothing flanked by two troopers. They march over to us, the woman walking up to Tarum.
“Is this the man you wanted me to meet, Officer Corporus?” she asked, her voice hinting at slight loathing. I could pick up something about her. She feels like my brother is wasting her time. You can tell by her body language.
“Yes, Admiral Geeris. This is my father, Markus Corporus. Father, this is Admiral Yvette Geeris, my commanding officer.”
“P-pleasure to meet you.”
Pops was practically shaking as he reached his hand out for a handshake. Geeris hesitated before accepting it. The troopers just stood there silently, their blasters resting in their hands. Why did Tarum bring them here?
“I’ve heard much about you, Mr. Corporus. The records on you are outstanding. You were possibly one of the best engineers for the Republic during the Clone Wars. A true war hero, if you ask me. It’s a treat for me to get to see your son rise in my ranks. He’s a gifted pilot, possibly the best in my entire brigade.”
Pops just nods his head awkwardly while Tarum stands there, beaming. What a suck-up. Geeris looks around my father’s shop.
“Battle droid parts...firearms from what I’m assuming were Naboo smugglers by the shape...engine parts…”
Her eyes rest on a white and red suit of trooper armor my father has displayed.
“Shock trooper armor? Looks like an early model. Right at the beginning from the Empire’s formation?”
“Eh, I don’t know where or when it’s from,” Pops shrugged, “Won it in a bet from a podracing tournament on Tatooine a few years back. Figured I could fetch a few credits for it.”
“Yes...well, the reason we’ve arrived is because of a transmission. One of our fleets intercepted a message to the Rebels on this planet. Given this outpost is the most populated area, we figured we’d check here. You haven’t happened to have seen something unusual, Mr. Corporus? It would be in your best interests to tell us. The Emperor himself would be most grateful.”
“Rebels? Here? No, I don’t believe so,” Pops quickly spit out, "I haven't seen anything."
Geeris made a slight attempt at a smile. She nodded, bid my father good day and thanks for his help, and began to walk back towards the ship bay. The two troopers stood there for a moment before following her. Now my brother just stared at us, agitated.
“Well, it was so nice to see you two again. Goodbye, father. Brother.”
He strides off, and my father lets out a sigh of relief. We both begin to set up the new equipment he wants to sell, until a shock of cold goes up my back. I look down at my arms and flip my jacket sleeves back to see rows of goosebumps forming. Pops looks at me.
“I have a bad feeling about something,” I mutter. He nods and rushes over.
“Here. Take these parts with you to the Fox. Gather anything you can from the house you think we’ll need, and get to the docking bay immediately. Don’t look back. If I’m not there, then you start the ship and leave to Dantooine. Understand?”
“Yes,” I say calmly, but my body is shivering. In the distance, we hear the familiar roar of twin ion engines. Pops grimaces and pushes me to the wall, opening the secret door that leads to an underground passageway. Few know about it, but it was used to hide supplies during the Clone Wars. The tunnel is one of a large system, snaking through the entire trading post and living areas. It’s not on any Imperial maps, making it non-existent. As I head down the dark passage, my ears pick up sounds of screams and blaster fire. I feel my eyes start to burn as a tear runs down my face. Pops worked so hard to keep his involvement hidden. It was Tarum who was blinded to the true workings of the Empire. He can’t see their true faces. He betrayed our father, and he betrayed me. I grimace as I think about what he’s done. Now isn’t the time for vengeance, though. I need to get to Dantooine and give Vuldrix the news about what’s happened. I don’t know what I’ll do then, but I’m clear of one thing. This is where it starts. My fight. My quest.
My rebellion.
- Edgar Allen Poe.
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I took this picture just before the tribute in light ceremony at the WTC memorial on the 11th year anniversary of 9/11.there were a bunch of NY's finest photographers at the Brooklyn bridge park in front of the dismantled pier.
As we were all waiting for the lights the sun started to set and lit up the sky beautifully. Fortunately I had my Lee big stopper with me and decided to use it along with the .3 Hard GND and got this amazing result. The only wish i had was to have some more clouds in the sky. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did making it!!
Great Horned Owls are nocturnal. You may see them at dusk sitting on fence posts or tree limbs at the edges of open areas, or flying across roads or fields with stiff, deep beats of their rounded wings. Their call is a deep, stuttering series of four to five hoots.
I tried using HDR for this photograph but due to cloud movement, which results in an unsightly stutter effect, I simply masked the lower half onto the upper half to create a proper toned image.
Olney State Forest, The Watagans, New South Wales, Australia
Vulnerable
Contact me on jono_dashper@hotmail.com for use of this image.
18 years ago, I saw James the band for the first time live. They are my favorite band and they have been with me for more than half of my life. This is my record collection and a rendition to them. Thank you for the soundtrack of my life.
Five-0: youtu.be/rOBriyEH-dc
Olney State Forest, The Watagans, New South Wales, Australia
Vulnerable
Contact me on jono_dashper@hotmail.com for use of this image.
Song Sparrow (Melospiza melodia) at the Richmond Nature Park.
"A rich, russet-and-gray bird with bold streaks down its white chest, the Song Sparrow is one of the most familiar North American sparrows. Don’t let the bewildering variety of regional differences this bird shows across North America deter you: it’s one of the first species you should suspect if you see a streaky sparrow in an open, shrubby, or wet area. If it perches on a low shrub, leans back, and sings a stuttering, clattering song, so much the better.". - www.allaboutbirds.org
Quickly, Mirror Master jumps out of the Mirror World into our world. He grabs a large metal bar and gets ready to swing it at the mirror so that Barry cannot leave the Mirror World. Inside the Mirror World, Barry jumps from mirror to mirror quickly to get to the portal before Mirror Master can break the mirror.
“Run, Barry, run!” Iris yells out
Barry gets to the last mirror and launches himself into the air.
Mirror Master begins to swing the metal bar.
The bar crashes into the mirror, but not until the Flash gets his head out of the mirror. Barry jumps into our world as the mirror shatters into a thousand pieces. A large shard lodges itself into Barry’s neck and thus causes him to drop to the ground quickly.
“Barry!” Iris yells as she runs to Barry’s side. She grabs him and lifts his back up into the air. “Barry, it’ll be alright! Wally! Hurry!”
As Wally approaches, Mirror Master aims his gun at another mirror and quickly shoots it so that he can leave quickly. He brings the pipe with him so that he can break the mirror behind him. He successfully does this before Wally can arrive next to Barry and Iris.
“Barry! What happened, Iris?”
“He got hit by the mirror.”
“I’ve got to get him to the hospital!”
”D-d-don’t… Iris... I…”
“Barry! Don’t leave me. Barry, you can’t do this.”
”Iris, I-I can’t feel my legs…”
“Don’t worry, Barry, I’ll get you help.”
”Don’t b-bother…”
“What?”
”It’ll be too… t-too late.”
“No, Barry, don’t leave me!”
”I can feel it… My heart is slowing… By the time I get there, I’ll be gone…”
”Stop that, Barry! Let me take you to the hospital!”
“Barry, I love you. I don’t want you to go.”
”Let me take you to Bruce, he has to have some kind of device that will help you.”
”No, he can’t help. No one can.”
“Barry, I love you.”
”I love you too, Iris… I always have…”
”Barry! Let me take you.”
“We were supposed to grow old together.”
”I’m so sorry.”
“No I am… It’s my fault…”
”No it’s not. I-I… should’ve st-stopped him when I-I had the chance… (COUGH)(COUGH)”
“Barry, don’t do this.”
”I love you, Iris.”
”Barry…”
”Take over here, Wally. I trust you.”
Barry Allen’s heart beat begins to stutter. Wally tries to check it, but he cannot feel it any longer. Wally jumps to his feet and grabs a metal chair. He throws it into a wall. The chair flies through the wall and into the next room. Iris begins crying uncontrollably as Barry’s eyes close.
“I love you, Barry.” Iris says as Wally takes Barry into his arms and begins to run him to the nearest hospital. He barges into the building and sets him onto a gurney. He yells for help and a nurse runs to his side.
“What happened?”
”He has a glass shard lodged in his neck. You need to help him.”
“He has no pulse.”
”Can’t you help him?”
“I can try. I need a doctor over here!” A doctor runs over to the gurney that Barry is laying on. The nurse rolls him into an operating room and closes the door behind her. Wally slumps down onto a nearby bench and waits for results.
Moments later the nurse slowly comes out of the room and sits next to Wally.
“We… We got the glass shard out of his spine, but unfortunately…” Wally doesn’t let her finish. He wraps his arms around her and begins crying on her shoulder. The shocked nurse wraps her arms around Wally to comfort him. The two sit there in silence as the nurse comforts Wally. “It’ll be okay…”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, yeah... Almost (if not more than) two years have gone by since I began writing Flash stories for the DCSG. When I first started I was promised to write Wally, as well he's my favorite, but we had to somehow kill off Barry to make way for Wally. This led to one of the main things that was supposed to happen in the group wide event "DOOM." If you remember about a year ago, me and Chris, SupremeDalekDunn, had began kicking off this event with the small Batman&Flash and Superman&Flash stories entitled "Countdown to Doom" and well... the countdown seemingly never stopped.
So here we are today, I asked Chris just a few weeks ago if it would be alright if I went ahead and did this myself, and he surprisingly (at least to me) said yes. So, I got to writing and building to make this volume one of the best things I've written, and while I'm not 100% sure if I accomplished this, I really had fun writing this and cannot wait to write Wally in the near future.
Oh, one more thing, there are still a couple issues left in this volume, so stay tuned for those. :D
IF YOU VIEW THIS ON BLACK I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER :)
THIS IS VERY LONG. BUT IT’S ONE I REALLY SUGGEST YOU READ.
My body swayed as the heat caressed every part of me. Absolute white pierced my vision when I looked into your face. It was so bright that my eyes couldn’t stay open but somehow I still saw you. Light radiated out of your skin so vividly that I couldn’t make out the details. In that moment though, the utter awe that consumed me silenced everything else.
“Come away with me.” Your words…your voice. There are no words that I could use to describe the pure beauty of it. Like water and thunder. There was such a beautiful tenderness yet still, such power, in those four words. I always imagined your voice to echo off of mountains and for birds to flock in fear as they flew in all directions. It was more than that. It was so much more. The stuttering of my heart had the faintest whisper of all those people lifting their voices. All those people crying out your name.
Your hand reached for me. I was frozen still as your fingers touched the boney part of my chest. I gasped. It was like I had walked head first into a hurricane. This wall of pressure swallowed me in such a peaceful way. The workers that beat my heart were swallowed in this tsunami of feeling. All the colours, all the light, all the emotions of the world rolled into one beautiful fusion that rushed through the wires of my veins. I could no longer breath on my own for the air that filled my lungs was much too sweet. Strength prickled down my spine. I tried to open my eyes, I tried to speak but you were just too overwhelming. I never truly appreciated or understood the term ‘beautiful’ until your presence seeped through my worldly flesh and bones. I never honestly understood your love until your arms embraced me and your lips, covered in sweet honey, spoke into my ear. “Open up your heart and let me in.”
Before I could understand any of this you were fading from my grasp. I swear, I swear I saw you smile. Or maybe it was simply the reflection of my own upturned lips. All I know is that when the light left after you and all I had to breathe was the stale air of my bedroom, I was certain that I was loved.
Come away with me, come away with me
It’s never too late, it’s not too late, it’s not too late for you
I have a plan for you. I have a plan for you.
It’s gonna be wild. It’s gonna be great. It’s going to be full of me.
- Jesus Culture, Come away with me/Let me in
Maddie sent me a really interesting flickrmail, simply asking for some guidance as to what to do to strengthen your faith. Where to start. All that jazz. Honestly, it’s all pretty overwhelming and it all seems so crazy. I’m one to doubt everything about my faith because of how logical I am.
So Maddie and any one else who’s interested, my honest truth is that I’m not sure if I would believe in God like I do, or even at all if I didn’t feel him. So many people have this strict christian regime. You read your bible. You go to church. You call yourself a christian. You believe god died and came back to life. Okay cool. But here’s the deal…sure those things are important but what happens if that’s not even the point? What happens if there’s so much more?
Matthew 7:21-23 ““Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name and in your name drive out demons and in your name perform many miracles?’ Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’”
I know I’ve used this verse before but it’s always on my heart. It has bothered me for a long time and no, I don’t know the complete meaning but God has given me a revelation. Your “Christian 101” book isn’t going to cut it. The beauty of having faith is having a relationship with God. Do you think someone who loved you enough to give their only son only wants to hear you say “God, You are Lord.” ? He doesn’t need us. He wants us. He wants our love. He wants to love us. Your faith will not grow or be strengthened because sooner or later you will have had read the bible through, said all the prayers your pastor says, proclaimed God is real. You won’t see the millions of messages God can give you with only one verse if you don’t have a relationship with him.
My writing simply tried ( and I mean tried because it’s nearly impossible) to describe the beauty of the holy spirit. The way God absolutely consumes you.
But if you’re looking for tips right now, my advice:
Listen to Jesus Culture. (especially their new album come away) (or any Christian band ha). Listen to the lyrics. Let his beautiful power move through the praise and worship and touch you.
Go to your bible. Read whatever’s there. Get a bible reading plan maybe. You’re not going to be able to necessarily find a verse that fits your situation in life until you get to know the bible really well. But a good place to start is 1 John chapters 1 through 5. It’s almost like a handbook to our faith. It’s pretty awesome and reassuring.
Pray. Pray like never before. Blast music. Get quiet. Do what you want but really try praying. Don’t feel dumb or try to use big words just because your pastors do. Talk to God like you’d talk to anyone. You might not hear him, you might feel weird as if you’re just talking to the wall. Keep praying though. He will touch you. But remember our faith isn’t about feeling God and getting, getting, getting. It’s about giving praise to the most glorious God.
Overall, those steps are simple things you can do. But if you don’t allow yourself to have a relationship with God you risk not feeling him in a way that is so powerful. In a way that my writing just can’t do justice.
The love you’ll feel for and from God is unlike anything ever. I hope this can remind you of that. I hope this can touch you in a way that reminds you how much you just want god.
All three photos posted this morning were taken yesterday, 14 May 2016, when I went on a morning walk with birding friends. We met at the Boat Launch in Fish Creek Park and walked in the Sikome and Lafarge Meadows areas. This included checking on the usual Great Horned Owl family - all four members were way up high in the trees, more or less hidden from view. Later today, I will add the list of bird species seen.
After this walk, I drove a short distance to see a different family of Great Horned Owls, presumably the same pair of adults that we had seen last year, nesting near the Bow Valley Ranch. Amazingly, this pair had four - yes, four! - owlets this time. Somewhat better views than of the first family, at least for the short time I was there. My photo shows one of these young ones, busy preening. They are still at the unsteady stage when they move along a branch. Love how the camera makes it look like the owl was right in front of me, when it was actually very high up in a tree.
"With its long, earlike tufts, intimidating yellow-eyed stare, and deep hooting voice, the Great Horned Owl is the quintessential owl of storybooks. This powerful predator can take down birds and mammals even larger than itself, but it also dines on daintier fare such as tiny scorpions, mice, and frogs. It’s one of the most common owls in North America, equally at home in deserts, wetlands, forests, grasslands, backyards, cities, and almost any other semi-open habitat between the Arctic and the tropics.
Great Horned Owls are nocturnal. You may see them at dusk sitting on fence posts or tree limbs at the edges of open areas, or flying across roads or fields with stiff, deep beats of their rounded wings. Their call is a deep, stuttering series of four to five hoots." From AllAboutBirds.
www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Great_Horned_Owl/id
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_horned_owl
Bird list from our leader, Melanie S:
Fish Creek PP--Boat Launch, Calgary, Alberta, CA
14-May-2016 9:00 AM - 12:10 PM
Protocol: Traveling
3.5 kilometer(s)
Comments: 10 to 15 deg C. Sunny. Nature Calgary field trip, leader Melanie Seneviratne.
46 species (+1 other taxa)
Canada Goose 24
Gadwall 8
American Wigeon 10
Mallard 22
Blue-winged Teal 4
Northern Shoveler 1
Canvasback 1
Redhead 7
Lesser Scaup 6
Common Goldeneye 2
Common Merganser 2
Pied-billed Grebe 1
Double-crested Cormorant 4
American White Pelican 5
Great Blue Heron 1
Osprey 4
Northern Goshawk 1 Flew over car park as we were leaving.
Swainson's Hawk 4
American Coot 4
Spotted Sandpiper 4
Wilson's Snipe 1
Franklin's Gull 3
California Gull 1
Rock Pigeon (Feral Pigeon) 2
Great Horned Owl 4 2 adult 2 juveniles
Downy Woodpecker 1
Northern Flicker 2
Northern Flicker (Red-shafted) 1
Pileated Woodpecker 1
Black-billed Magpie 2
American Crow 2
Common Raven 5
Tree Swallow 250
Barn Swallow 1
Cliff Swallow 20
Black-capped Chickadee 1
White-breasted Nuthatch 1
American Robin 12
European Starling 10
Clay-colored Sparrow 2
White-crowned Sparrow 1
Savannah Sparrow 3
Song Sparrow 1
Red-winged Blackbird 30
Yellow-headed Blackbird 6
Brewer's Blackbird 1
Brown-headed Cowbird 5