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Olympus Trip 35, Zuiko 40/2.8, orange filter, Cinestill BWXX 250, HC-110/dil. B, 6 min. Digitized with Nikon D700, AF Micro-Nikkor 60/2.8 D, ES-2, CS-Lite
Music when Soft Voices Die
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
(Shelley on Keats' death)
www.youtube.com/watch?v=__NhT3udFzk
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→ LEIMOTIV → Helli Set for TSS 04/01
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Truth Hair
Out of my comfort zone, capturing people is something I am far from accustomed to - it's a skill I feel I don't possess! But this one I like, I feel it captured the moment really well and the unknown voice can be heard...
My take on the infamous 'Voice of Fire' art installation in Canada's National Gallery. (Google it)
I've named this image so, because, it's a section of our indoor track, on which, I'm attempting to get back into running shape, and so far, well, let's just say that me and this track are 'having words'.
:)
(Haven't been around much because it's the beginning of hockey season and I'm crazy busy. Cheers everyone.)
© All rights reserved.
The old, less travelled road.
Texture is Bruised Ego by ghostbones/skeletalmess
VOCE DALL'ALTO,
voce di tuono,
dall'oscurità delle nubi parlami!
Voce dal basso,
voce della cavalletta,
dal verde delle piante
parlami!
Così possa la terra
essere bella.
Canto cerimoniale dei Navajo
VOICE FROM ABOVE,
voice of thunder,
speak to me from the darkness of the clouds!
Voice from below,
voice of the grasshopper, from the green of the plants
talk to me!
So may the earth
be beautiful.
Navajo ceremonial song
www.edizionilpuntodincontro.it/libri/figli-del-grande-spi...
Bing Image Creator
© Ben Heine || Facebook || Twitter || www.benheine.com
_______________________________________________
For more information about my art: info@benheine.com
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Through the Wind’s Trance
A poem by Peter S. Quinn
Here are the lost waves
Reaching to the shore
With the invisible craves
With what each man is for
Rasping the sands time sea
From nocturnal struggle
Forever in the night to be
As a performing obstacle
Penetrating every silence
From lost indistinct rise
Through the wind's trance
The hidden - in its disguise
Innumerable bizarre so pure
The seeds from buried earth
That to the people will lure
To give their missing - its birth
Hear the voice of the land
That chooses roots to be born
Invincible waves to understand
Between each contrasts it's torn
Circulating the current song
From numerous convey of hope
To struggle and rises so strong
Of succeeding newborn zest lope
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The poem appeared on www.poemhunter.com/peter-s-quinn
و رقمـــن لو انه مخــزن راح من بالـــك
ورقمــن اليـــآ دق في شاشتــك يا زينـــه
ما هـــــو مميــز لـــــكن غصب يحــلآلك
مـــــن حــب رآعيــه تفـــرح به و مغلينـــه
و غصبــن تبسم لو انــك بأتعـــس أحوآلك
We have put Ivar on a rationed diet because he’s gotten quite chubby. He’s starting to be more basketball shaped than kitty shaped!
Quite a few times throughout each day, he likes to loudly let us know that he has never been fed once in his entire life and is starving to death, even if he’s eaten only an hour earlier. He’s as dramatic as he is adorable!
A sudden loss of voice¸ the words come and go. A sudden loss of voice looks like a trance. Restitution is like being In The Face¸ closely¸ about as still as beautiful scenery when you pass it by moving quickly¸ and at one moment there is a tone¸ a serious tightening of the jaw¸ an expressionless face just as if to set up words in the cavity of one's eyes that are always open to the impulse to proudly flood out laughter¸ as if by request ― the feeling within you that is expected to be stimulated of what long remains a bright light¸ planting the Tender into the anti-blink of an eye.
Macro Mondays - Lockdown Song
This was a song that I first heard on the radio back in October 2020. I didn't hear who it was by or what it was called. After some online 'research' I learned it was by a singer named Celeste, who at that time I had never heard of.
Her voice is 'unique' and once heard you will always know it is her singing. The lyrics are very apt too !!
At around the same time, my grandson had got a new smartphone and knowing how much I love photography, sent me a couple of the images he had taken that day. Like music, there are some images that create an unforgettable impression and this one, in the current climate did it for me...... particularly as it went side by side with my most favourite Lockdown song to date,
'Hear My Voice' by Celeste
If you haven't heard this song, please check it out !!
You may need to copy and paste in your browser
Quiet
I am sleeping
Quiet
I am sleeping
Quiet
I don't trust you
I can't hear you
Be ashamed
Of the mess you've made
My eyes never forget, you see
Behind me
Behind me
The grace of falling snow
Cover up everything you know
Come save me from the awful sound
Of nothing
Tom Jones at Alnwick Castle last night. Brilliant, except for 2 power failures & organisation was less than perfect...
That man certainly has an amazing voice, even at 75!
For my friend NatuurfotoRien/Rien in Holland, who loves corvids.
I had this odd notion that when I retire I would carve a totem pole, and so over the years, I learned more and more about northwest coast art, culture, and carving. One of the pieces I studied was this - a huge cedar sculpture carved by the great sculptor, Bill Reid, to whom the telling of this ancient story is credited.
Bill Reid was a Haida indian (Haida is their word for “human”). The Haida tribe lives in the Queen Charlotte Islands off the coast of northern Canada (below Alaska), in a special place they call Haida Gwaii. Bill is widely credited for reviving the arts of the northwest coast - he was an amazing sculptor. I am disappointed I will never meet him.
The northwest coast tribes have many gods - all animals. Raven is the Haida equivalent of “fox”. Tricky, playful, smart, inquisitive - these are all qualities of Raven, whose play and trickery created the stars in the sky, the sun, the ocean and man.
The man-size (literally) sculpture is inside the University of British Columbia museum in Vancouver, Canada. When it was installed, Bill had the children of Haida Gwaii come to the installation - each with bottles of sand from the beach at Haida Gwaii, so Raven, could be installed in his native soil.
Here is his telling of their genesis myth - one of the most sacred stories in Haida culture:
The Story of the Raven Creating Man by Bill Reid
The great flood which had covered the earth for so long had receded, and even the thin strip of sand now called Rose Spit, stretching north from Naikun village lay dry. The Raven had flown there to gorge himself on the delicacies left by the receding water, so for once he wasn't hungry. But his other appetites - lust, curiosity and the unquenchable itch to meddle and provoke things, to play tricks on the world and its creatures - these remained unsatisfied.
He had recently stolen the light from the old man who kept it hidden in a box in his house in the middle of the darkness, and had scattered it throughout the sky. The new light spattered the night with stars and waxed and wane in the shape of the moon. And it dazzled the day with a single bright shining which lit up the long beach that curved from the spit beneath Raven's feet westward as far as Tao Hill. Pretty as it was, it looked lifeless and so to the Raven quite boring. He gave a great sigh, crossed his wings behind his back and walked along the sand, his shiny head cocked, his sharp eyes and ears alert for any unusual sight or sound. Then taking to the air, he called petulantly out to the empty sky. To his delight, he heard an answering cry - or to describe it more closely, a muffled squeak.
At first he saw nothing, but as he scanned the beach again, a white flash caught his eye, and when he landed he found at his feet, buried in the sand, a gigantic clamshell. When he looked more closely still, he saw that the shell was full of little creatures cowering in terror of his enormous shadow.
Well, here was something to break the monotony of his day. But nothing was going to happen as long as the tiny things stayed in the shell, and they certainly weren't coming out in their present terrified state. So the Raven leaned his great head close to the shell, and with the smooth trickster's tongue that had got him into and out of so many misadventures during his troubled and troublesome existence, he coaxed and cajoled and coerced the little creatures to come out and play in his wonderful, shiny new world. As you know the Raven speaks in two voices, one harsh and strident, and the other, which he used now, a seductive bell-like croon which seems to come from the depths of the sea, or out of the cave where the winds are born. It is an irresistible sound, one of the loveliest sounds in the world. So it wasn't long before one and then another of the little shell-dwellers timidly emerged. Some of them immediately scurried back when they saw the immensity of the sea and the sky, and the overwhelming blackness of the Raven. But eventually curiosity overcame caution and all of them had crept or scrambled out. Very strange creatures they were: two-legged like the Raven, but there the resemblance ended. They had no glossy feathers, no thrusting beak. Their skin was pale, and they were naked except for the long black hair on their round, flat-featured heads. Instead of strong wings, they had thin stick-like appendages that waved, and fluttered constantly. They were the original Haidas, the first humans.
For a long time the Raven amused himself with his new playthings, watching them as they explored their much expanded-world. Sometimes they helped one another in their new discoveries. Just as often, they squabbled over some novelty they found on the beach. And the Raven taught them some clever tricks, at which they proved remarkably adept. But the Raven's attention span was brief, and he grew tired of his small companions. For one thing, they were all males. He had looked up and down the beach for female creatures, hoping to make the game more interesting, but females were nowhere to be found. He was about to shove the now tired, demanding and quite annoying little creatures back into their shell and forget about them when suddenly - as happens so often with the Raven - he had an idea.
He picked up the men, and in spite of their struggles and cries of fright he put them on his broad back, where they hid themselves among his feathers. Then the Raven spread his wings and flew to North Island. the tide was low, and the rocks, as he had expected, were covered with those large but soft-lipped molluscs known as red chitons. The Raven shook himself gently, and the men slid down his back to the sand. The he flew to the rock and with his strong beak pried a chiton from its surface.
Now, if any of you have ever examined the underside of a chiton, you may begin to understand what the Raven had in his libidinous, devious mind. He threw back his head and flung the chiton at the nearest of the men. His aim was as unerring as only a great magician's can be, and the chiton found its mark in the delicate groin of the startled, shell-born creature. There the chiton attached itself firmly. Then as sudden as spray hitting the rocks from a breaking wave, a shower of chitons broke over the wide-eyed humans, as each of the open-mouthed shellfish flew inexorably to its target.
Nothing quite like this had ever happened to the men. They had never dreamed of such a thing during their long stay in the clamshell. They were astounded, embarrassed, confused by a rush of new emotions and sensations. They shuffled and squirmed, uncertain whether it was pleasure or pain they were experiencing. They threw themselves down on the beach, where a great storm seemed to break over them, followed just as suddenly by a profound calm. One by one the chitons dropped off. The men staggered to their feet and headed slowly down the beach, followed by the raucous laughter of the Raven, echoing all the way to the great island to the north which we now call Prince of Wales.
That first troop of male humans soon disappeared behind the nearest headland, passing out of the games of the Raven and the story of humankind. Whether they found their way back to the shell, or lived out their lives elsewhere, or perished in the strange environment in which they found themselves, nobody remembers, and perhaps nobody cares. They had played their roles and gone their way.
Meanwhile the chitons had made their way back to the rock, where they attached themselves as before. But they too had been changed. As high tide followed low and the great storms of winter gave way to the softer rains and warm sun of spring, the chitons grew and grew, many times larger than their kind had ever been before. Their jointed shells seemed about to fly apart from the enormous pressure within them. And one day a huge wave swept over the rock, tore them from their footholds and carried them back to the beach. As the water receded and the warm sun dried the sand, a great stirring began among the chitons. From each emerged a brown skinned, black-haired human. This time there were both males and females among them, and the Raven could begin his greatest game: the one that still goes on.
They were no timid shell-dwellers these, but children of the wild coast, born between the sea and land, challenging the strength of the stormy North Pacific and wresting from it rich livelihood. Their descendants built on its beaches the strong, beautiful homes of the Haidas and embellished them with the powerful heraldic carvings that told of the legendary beginnings of great families, all the heros and heroines and the gallant beasts and monsters who shaped their world and their destinies. For many generations they grew and flourished, built and created, fought and destroyed, living according to the changing seasons and the unchanging rituals of their rich and complex lives.
It's nearly over now. Most of the villages are abandoned, and those which have not entirely vanished lie in ruins. The people who remain are changed. The sea has lost much of its richness, and great areas of land itself lie in waste. Perhaps it's time the Raven started looking for another clamshell.
For the group Macro Mondays : Thème Musical Instruments
As an instrument, the human voice produces a wide variety of pitches, offers complex tonality, and has percussive capacity.
Vocal music is probably the oldest form of music, since it does not require any instrument besides the human voice. All musical cultures have some form of vocal music.
HMM !
Possessed Voices.
Possessions effrayantes vanité noire distrayant les têtes roulantes de la frénésie hurlant des démons des émotions folles étreignant les loups posture inquiète des visages horrifiés hurlant,
pulsantem corpora frigus hospites comis figurarum aspectus varietate turbari cella ferae capiti haunting somnium furibundus, штормы ужасные ночи омрачают атмосферу странные действия подавляющие эмоции немыслимые действия злые ужасы драматические ситуации,
tensões sinopse formulando planos projetos vívidos chamas antigas termos mentais ilusões encontradas medos cósmicos membros magros olhos invisíveis estremecendo feitiços,
anxietăți ferestre hipnotice margini enorme puncte vizibile ciupite brațe apariții grimase oribile sentimente abominabile,
表現できない悲しみアンティークデン陰気な壁通路を笑う所持心をぶちまける拷問失明タスク燃えるような孤独目に見えるキーヒンジ天井の廊下深紅の悪魔を呼ぶ無限.
Steve.D.Hammond.