View allAll Photos Tagged thoughts
Man from a Nuba tribe smoking a traditional pipe.Nuba are one of the largest non Arabic tribes in Sudan.They are by origin from Jebel(mountain)Nuba)in central Sudan.Nuba are famous by wresttling..
Taken in Northern Sudan.
This is for the Monday Photo Challenges and Thursday Retreads'.
Be a good friend and check out all the other entries. Just clicky cliky on the link above and *presto* you are there. Feel free to join. Really this group challenges you each and every week.
This is thought to be 18 July 1987 and 188 is entering Rathmore with what is probably a Cork - Mallow - Tralee service.
"Corporate blue" has arrived, even in the remoter parts of Kerry.
All photographs are my copyright and must not be used without permission. Unauthorised use will result in my invoicing you £1,500 per photograph and, if necessary, taking legal action for recovery.
Hopefully the blackbird will still remain common but currently numbers are declining in Southern England thought to be due to a mosquito-borne virus.
(359 of 366 in 2024)
FREE SPEECH
By Neil Goodwin
I decided to have another go at Section 132 of the Serious and Organised Crime and Police Act 2005. I didn’t buy that whole ‘inappropriate’ line from my previous brush off with the law. Section 132 and I were made for each other.
Well Section 132 was actually made to get rid of Brian Haw, who for the past four years had turned Parliament Square into an unsightly bloody mess as a shocking indictment of the unsightly bloody mess that Britain and America has turned large chunks of the Muslim world into. And it’s extremely powerful stuff. Covered in words like ‘GENOCIDE’ and horrendous images of mutilated and deformed children, the kind of cruel and grotesque visions of war that our media willingly self-censors and sanitises every day, Brian’s display runs right across the front of the green, making it impossible to ignore.
As Brian commented as far back as November 2004: ‘The Government doesn’t want people to hear what I’m saying and to see the pictures of tortured and bombed innocent children which I have on display here.’
According to Section 132 -
‘Any person who –
(a)organises a demonstration in a public place in the designated area, or
(b)takes part in a demonstration in a public place in the designated area, or
(c)carries on a demonstration by himself in a public place in the designated area,
is guilty of an offence if, when the demonstration starts, authorisation for the demonstration has not been given…’
But what happened was that Section 132 was so hastily and shoddily concocted that the one person that it was designed to silence somehow slipped through the net, ironically becoming the only person who could then legally protest near Westminster, while (hopefully!) waking the rest of us up to the further erosion of our civil liberties.
Edmund Burke once wrote that ‘Bad laws are the worst kind of tyranny’. But bad laws are also the best indication that a political system is quite frankly going completely barking mad. As some bright spark once observed – ‘Power corrupts. And absolute power corrupts absolutely’. And like the Tories before them, ten years of absolutism has made New Labour look more than a little frayed round the edges, Tony Blair’s frenzied gaze, now so reminiscent of Margaret Thatcher’s steely glare, sinking ever deeper into his skull, his manic smile betraying a progressively unhinged state of mind.
The fact that any act of dissent within sight of Westminster, however trivial, is now labelled as a Seriously Organised Crime shows just how much the Government is losing it. People are being leant on for the silliest of things. For dressing up as clowns, teddy bears, Mary Poppins. For eating iced buns, for pity’s sake! In truth, one of the first things to go under a dictatorship is a good sense of humour.
It had been a weird few weeks. Everywhere you looked the idea of Free Speech was being called into question, the boundaries of acceptability explored. First, Nick Griffin, leader of the British National Party, was cleared of inciting racial hatred (clearly a case of someone not reading the instructions on the packet). Then a bunch of demonstrators, one of which was dressed like a suicide bomber, took to the streets calling for the beheading of some cartoonists who had dared to depict the Prophet Mohamed. And finally Abu Hamza, the firebrand Muslim cleric, was banged-up for seven years at the Old Bailey for inciting murder and racial hatred.
So on my second visit to Westminster, ‘Free Speech’ was it, or at least the idea of it, because as I would once again become Charlie Chaplin, it would have to be mulled over, not uttered. So I cut out a thought bubble (courtesy of Microsoft), which contained the words ‘FREE SPEECH’, and I nailed it to a wooden handle.
Thursday February 9th 2006
Upon leaving the house as Chaplin, you are immediately and permanently on stage, and there’s always this awkward phase while you battle to get into character. You’ve thrown away the cloak of anonymity. You stand out like a sore thumb. Dogs seem to detest you for some reason, and people unexpectedly call out your name, laugh or blow their horns. Everything is given this weird context. An announcement on the platform warns passengers to be on the lookout for ‘suspicious behaviour’.
Before I went to Parliament Square, I decided to take a stroll around the West End. I paid homage to Chaplin’s statue in Leicester Square, giving his shoes a quick wipe before going on to The Cinema Store on St. Martin’s Lane, where I found a shelf devoted to Chaplin DVDs. There was a Special Deal ‘: 2 for £20. I took particular interest in ‘The Great Dictator’, Chaplin’s attack on authoritarianism. I had recently learned that Chaplin was not only born the same year as Hitler, but the same week.
Next, I strolled down to Trafalgar Square, where I was approached by two so-called Heritage Wardens who warned me that under local council by-laws, I couldn’t make any political speeches. Which was just as well. I had bigger fish to fry. But before I left, I passed a gang of youths, who interpreted my ‘Free Speech’ as support for the embattled cartoonists of Denmark.
“I’m gonna mash you up,” Threatened one. But then thought better of it. Which was just as well, I didn’t relish the idea of having to fend him off with my thought bubble.
My plan was to walk down the length of Whitehall, past Horse Guards and the Ministry of Defence, and hangout at Downing Street. As I mentioned before, Tony Blair made this speech at the Iraq War Summit in Texas, 2002, when he’s quoted as saying: -
‘When I pass protestors every day at Downing Street… I may not like what they call me, but I thank God that they can. That’s called Freedom.’
I wasn’t calling him anything rude, so in theory he’d doubly ‘thank God’ that he could pass me every day. So I’d stuck his quote onto the back of my thought bubble, in the vain hope that if I did finally get hitched to Section 132, he could be best man at my trial.
Downing Street must be one of the darkest and most dismal neighbourhoods in London, and, judging by all the security precautions, certainly one of the most paranoid. By the look of the guns and concrete tank traps, you’d be forgiven for believing that London has grown into a much more dangerous place. Although for a long time I’ve had the sneaking suspicion that this is exactly what the Government wants us to believe. A sneaking suspicion that the whole thing is one big protection racket designed to steal our money and civil liberties, and that Britain is really in the business of manufacturing and exporting real danger elsewhere.
It was mighty cold at Downing Street, so I decided to move on to Parliament Square and visit Brian Haw’s protest, where I was soon approached by two community coppers. There I was, surrounded by placards and banners and horrendous photographs of mutilated children, with words like ‘Genocide’, ‘Murder’ and ‘Greed’ screaming out left, right and centre. There I was, standing there with one simple thought on my mind: Free Speech’, an essence of Brian Haw’s protest, and these two wannabe cops are telling me that I can’t protest in the designated zone without permission. “What about all this, then?” I gestured.
I showed them Blair’s quote, to which they replied: “We’re not here to argue with you.” Luckily, I’d written my details down on a scrap of paper, so there could be no complications with obstruction. It seemed that Section 132 was finally in my grasp. I’d have my day in court. But the two pretend cops needed backup from the real thing, which arrived ten minutes later, huffing and puffing a touch more authoritatively.
I was given thirty minutes to leave the area, which was a total gift. Wow! Half an hour to relax and jolly about, and unleash a wave of seriously organised crime on a bunch of unsuspecting tourists, after which I could then go off to the nick for a spot of lunch and a nap. So I crossed the road.
Ten minutes later, this man wandered up to me in fancy dress. He looked like a town crier, with a three-pointed hat, a red coat covered in golden buttons and opulent feathery white ruffles, and funky-buckled shoes. He was carrying a large bell. I got the feeling that it was his job to ring the lunchtime bell for all the kids at Parliament. For a few seconds we stared at each other – exact opposites in many ways. Him: big, booming and colourful. Me: skinny, silent and black and white. Both: walking tourist attractions, London icons on parade.
“What’s all this about, then?” He huffed, looking me up and down. He was clearly taken aback by encountering another freak on his rounds. I wanted to shout: “Behind you!” But silently gushed and showed him the quote from the Head Master Mr Blair, which seemed to excuse my presence outside the school gates. He walked off without saying another word.
Then this lady appeared with a large painting of Jesus hung round her neck handing out prayers. She told me that the police didn’t seem to mind her praying for ‘Divine Mercy’, unlike the display opposite, which was essentially ‘praying’ for the same thing. I put a thought into Jesus’ mind.
I finally got to meet Brian Haw, who came over to take some pictures. Here is a man who has spent the last few years living in the ultimate Big Brother house, watched every minute of every day by scores of CCTV cameras, in one of the most security conscious neighbourhoods in the land. His protest, arguably the only substantial and public objection to Britain’s complicity in the Iraq war currently in existence. Because sad to say, without Mr. Haw’s efforts, there would be no visible day to day opposition to Britain’s disastrous, costly and highly immoral crusade in the Middle East. Without his screaming banners and placards, all would appear rosy in the English garden, and the thousands of tourists that visit the Palace of Westminster every day could only assume that the British people are totally ‘up for it’. Hence Section 132, the Government’s botched attempt to prune the roses and spray the aphids.
I looked across the road towards the green. One of the community coppers was staring at me. He tapped his wrist, as if to warn me I was running out of time. I swivelled round to check Big Ben. I had ten minutes, and held up ten fingers. He shook his head, and signalled five. Either way, I wasn’t fussed. I wasn’t going anywhere. I was just giving him the illusion that he had some kind of power over me. Lifting him up for the inevitable fall. Poor man. And he wasn’t even a real copper, just another guy in fancy dress.
When the time came, the community copper came over and told me that he was going to report me to the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) for infringing Section 132. While I stood ‘thinking’ about Free Speech, he filled out a statement and then got me to read and then sign it (which I probably shouldn’t have done). And then he left.
So on my second outing to Westminster - a huge anti-climax. No cheese and pickle sandwiches down the Charing Cross nick. No formal charge of Section 132. I wasn’t even leant on by a real copper. But I did get the opportunity to stand there for a further two hours, my thought clamped to the side of my brain, pulling funny faces and posing for pictures with hundreds of tourists.
And then I waddled-off, over Westminster Bridge and along the South Bank, where I bumped into Kat, an old housemate of mine, who spends his days standing totally still beneath The London Eye, completely covered in Black and White stripes. At his feet sat a cap sprinkled with about a pound’s worth of coins – the afternoon’s takings. My friend, Dee, suggested that I also take up a spot of busking on the South Bank, if nothing else to help pay for the bus fare, or my eventual fines. But I’m not too sure. Money changes the dynamic. Tourists seem to expect you to be able to execute fancy mimes. And perhaps some things are just not for sale.
One thing’s for sure. I was becoming more and more smitten with the character of Charlie Chaplin. Generally speaking, people appear friendlier towards you. I enjoy making people smile. My mobility problems, which often attract concerned looks in the street, seem to have found their spiritual home in Chaplin’s clown-like gait. Dressed as Chaplin I could now celebrate my stiff joints, enjoy the awkwardness - a state of mind that relaxed my body as a whole. As Chaplin observed, ‘Laughter is the tonic, the relief, the surcease of pain.’ And I was sure responding to treatment.
I entered the National Film Theatre, which was showing a season of Buster Keaton films, and ordered a hot chocolate. As I sat in the café, a group of teenagers came up to the window and gestured skywards, and proceeded to bow down to me in prayer. I was touched but the mock adoration, but it wasn’t until I left that I realised that I had been sitting directly beneath a large photo of The Little Tramp.
Kumiho's snout elongated, his eyes grew, and fur covered his body. He had fully transformed into a fox. Koneko had never actually witnessed her mom and dad change before, but it was far less scary than she had thought. He had smiled the entire time. He hadn't been in pain at all.
Maybe she could do it, after all. Kumiho barked happily before saying "Okay now, lovely. Your turn. Mommy will be so proud if you change form! And you can finally attend school!".
This white-faced saki monkey is either Opus or his son, Bungee. I can no longer tell them apart. He was looking very thoughtful as he ate.
My daughter overthinking her own thoughts and dreaming away. It is taken by daylight with the use of a refelection screen. #portret #younggirl #blackandwhite #50mm #daylight
heres the little booklet that came with her i thought i would upload it to show what you can do with these dolls
Thoughts
created with Jen Maddocks Artful Marks Monsieur 2 Bundle
www.digitalscrapbookingstudio.com/digital-art/bundled-dea...
#promotion
Our ideas are like the ocean, and thoughts like the drops which make up the ocean.
If you don't think clear enough, your idea will be hazy just like these drops.
A chain of thought in reverential silence will always reveal more than Chinese whispers. No muddied words; instead a shared space for imagination to soul search. The uninterrupted freedom of thinking.
I am starting to feel fenced in with the lines on this piece of glass.
Explore Photo on 11/08/08 #384
Highest position: 272 on Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Hawksworth GWR class 94XX no.9466 attracts an admirer in the footbridge at West Ruislip as it pauses for water on 1Z67 11:58 West Ruislip to Princes Risborough 'The Dennis Howells Memorial Train' on 20th October 2018. A week prior to the charter came the news that Nigel Dobbing, head of mainline steam charter company The Railway Touring Company had also passed away. LNER class A4 no.60009 'Union of South Africa' was also out this day with an RTC charter from Ealing Broadway to York and also carried a wreath in his memory. A poignant day for those of us that are still able to enjoy sights such as this, remembering two people who were instrumental in getting mainline steam to where it is today.
Laissons nous imaginer à quoi une femme peut elle penser à la vision d'un tel nu de Picasso.
A voir et visiter au superbe musée Picasso de Malaga.
Leica Q3 28mm
January 7, 2008 | An older photo of Tyler. He had recently turned four when I took this and now he will soon turn five. He found out his pet hermit crab died. I should of told him a lie. He cried for two hours and doesn't seem to understand his crab Foeley (his own name) is not coming back. I think I could of gotten away with swapping for a new one but after feeding our dog he wanted to feed the crab and I told him the truth...
Still on the wedding shots I previously covered. Hope you'll like this candid (yes yes, candid) portrait.
L A R G E is better :-)
© Fabrice Drevon | Do not use without my authorization.