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My images this week seem to have focussed on seasons. Strange that Christmas came before Autumn but then we are living in strange times.
©Jane Brown2015 All Rights Reserved. This image is not available for use on websites, blogs or other media without explicit written permission.
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You know what its like....... you get that itch and you've just got to scratch........only to look round to see you're being watched!
Technically far from perfect but he made me smile :)
Although the sun was hazy, it was still warm enough to sit outside and Harbie was happy to enjoy some garden time with Sarah and Emily.
Wimpole Hall is a country house located within the Parish of Wimpole, Cambridgeshire, England, about 8 1⁄2 miles) southwest of Cambridge. The house,dates back to 1640.The house and estate had several owners and in 1938, Capt. George Bambridge and his wife Elsie, daughter of Rudyard Kipling, purchased it, after having been tenants since 1932. They used the inheritance left to them by her father for the long needed refurbishment of the house and grounds. The final chapter of Wimpole as an owner-occupied residence was closed in 1976 when Elsie died, leaving the property to the National Trust.
That's exactly what this car is. The Grohsbach Eigenbau is the sole product of Alfred Grahsbach who decided to build his own microcar. It was far from a toy and included various patents, like four wheeled steering and a motorbike type set of handlebars that could be used to control the car. With a top speed of 60mph and a 248cc engine that developed 12hp it proved to be his daily use vehicle into the 1960's.
Built in 1953 at his home in Tamm, West Germany.
The car in the background is a very early post war car built for invalids. I understand that only one leg was required to drive it so it proved popular with amputees.
Photographed in the motor museum in Schramberg.
Willow: ... I'm going to be Storm, the X-Man.
Me: Don't you mean X-Woman?
Willow: No, it's X-Man even if it's a woman I'm sure.
Me: You mean X-Men then. Not man. It's a group name.
Willow: .... When I grow up, I'm going to be Storm and cast lightning bolts on meanies and sunshine on not meanies.
Willow had a way to make me see sense...
************
For the theme "When I Grow Up" in the Blythe a Day group.
After 6 months , i'm resuming the "when it rains" series , The heavy rain season started a couple on Wednesday . I know I haven't been around much lately , it's been very hectic but fortunately i'll have more time in a couple of days .
there is no slow lingering death but rather a collapse and swift demise to oblivion.
Makuleke Concession
Kruger National Parl
Limpopo
South Africa
When a piece of Syvon's soul containing his acperience powers returned, Viara and her father, the soul watcher were both surprised.
Though the fate of Monarth and the rest of Syvon was unknown, the soul watcher forged the returned soul into a new acperience warden. Alai, as the warden was named, was modelled after Viara, but took on a more brash personality.
As opposed to Syvon, Alai's method of 'beating sense' into the dead proved effective and the soul cycle could slowly start to continue once more.
-----------------------------------
It didn't take too long to build Alai, since a large portion was copied from Viara. The lower torso is largely original though, as is the back. I aimed for a slightly stockier build with her, though some of the design choices resulted in longer arms and the sides being a bit flimsy. I like the final look though.
Trivia:
-Alai's stomach is still orange as opposed to her translucent tail, because she hasn't fully matured yet. Once she's lived a few years, her belly will become translucent and glowy like here sister's.
-Like Viara, the shaping is inspired by Pokémon's Mewtwo.
Again....we are trying to understand....when that moment come every months...'the red dot'
please don't get mad dear....=)
When I travel I often seem to stumble into foreign weddings. It’s a great situation for a few candid shots of happy people.
I was so focused on this being my 11th year on flickr,
that I forgot it was also the first day of SPRING!
Let's celebrate!
A shot of short Dart 42559 SN05DSV, a very well worked and careworn member of the First Kernow fleet.
For years, these were largely found on the Falmouth area locals and a few other routes around Camborne but this one is covering for an errant new e200 when seen climbing out of Fowey.
The period just after the Black Prince take-over was interesting for First Leeds given it brought many Scania buses into the fleet from a wide range of backgrounds. This is No 36923 F423GWG, which was new in August 1989 at Potters Bar, London. It graduated through their owning company and ended up in Liverpool before coming with many others to Black Prince. It lasted another 3 years with first radiating from Kirkstall or Bramley garages before going for scrap towards the end of 2009. It is captured operating an evening 97A which was a former West Yorkshire route from Leeds. Thrown out on a peak board by the maverick of the day :)
In order to turn the vehicle and still give the residents of West of Guiseley a bus service, it did a loop on Netherfield Rd and then Ings Lane before heading back to Leeds. Nowadays the bus doesn't come down here and is re-numbered 27, the area on the left is housing, albeit the clock survives locally in a car park opposite.
As the days become longer, there's a couple of minutes every evening when a sharp sunset ray, reflected off the windows of the residential block close by, pierces across our sitting-room. Sometimes highlighting very interesting objects in its way.
Using two plastic Cocktail glasses with coloured liquid. Suspended by fishing wire and bounced off each other. 3 SD200 flash units used with a black clothe background
And he decides who to free and who to blame
Everybody won't be treated all the same
There'll be a golden ladder reaching down
When the Man comes around
My late teenage years were not cheery times. Certain events in my life had drastically altered the foundations on which my life had been based. I was stuck in a type of purgatory, watching as my family tore itself apart on one side while I systematically alienated everyone else on the other. By the time I was a senior in high school my life was like a fully loaded freight train of stress approaching a hairpin curve in the track.
Sometime that year it derailed.
By the time I was in college I had to get out. Drop out from everything for a while.
I had been on the road for less than a month when I pulled into Albuquerque, New Mexico. I was scruffy and dirty, thirsty and hungry. In the proceeding weeks I had been living simply, consisting on rice and soup that I cooked on my camp stove and sleeping in campgrounds or the back of my truck.
I had hit every major city on my way out from the east, stopping to get a feel for the environment and searching for interesting faces. Sometimes I would stay a few days, sometimes a few hours. I saw red-neck cowboys on the streets of Nashville dancing to dolly on the jukebox and I saw voo-doo priestess wandering darkly through the above ground cemeteries of New Orleans. For the first time in my life I felt that I was really living. And so on a blazing hot day I rolled onto the streets of Albuquerque, following the old Route 66.
High on living. And that’s when my luck ran out.
I had quickly learned that the most interesting faces belonged to those people who had it hard. The people of the street. As a result I knew that I could always find an interesting face or story near the city shelters, bus stations and tourist traps. Albuquerque wasn’t any different. I spent part of the day at the city center watching the hot air balloons float past, then trekked over to the Greyhound terminal but both proved to be disappointing. Finally, I stopped a local police officer and asked him flat out “where are all of your homeless.” A little surprised at the question he curtly told me how the city had rounded up and herded all of the street people to the shelters for the day, standard procedure when the balloons were flying. I guess they wanted their streets clean when the out-of-towners arrived. He pointed me in the direction of the nearest shelter and off I went.
Outside of downtown, on the wrong side of the tracks I found what I was looking for; a church soup kitchen with a line of about twenty five haggard souls out the door. The whole setup was like a POW camp in hostile territory, surrounded by a metal fence topped with barb wire. As I entered I knew I was not welcome, hard stares were cutting me from every direction. I walked up to a picnic table on which five or six men were sitting and pulled out my camera.
“Would anyone mind if I took some photos?” I asked.
“I would…” one man grumbled back. But two or three others agreed that they wouldn’t mind so I approached them and prepared to shoot their portraits.
“I said I mind…” the other man grumbled again. The other seemed to ignore him, so I was obliged to do so as well.
Just then as I was about to take one of the men’s pictures, the grumbling man began to reach into a black duffel bag on top of the picnic table. I froze as his hand reemerged holding a stubby pistol pointed right in my direction.
“I told you twice that I would mind…and you didn’t listen. Now I don’t want no fucking cameras in my face and now I’m gonna have to shoot you.” The other men at the table quickly got up and exited the area, obviously not wanting anything to do with what was going down.
“I…I’m sorry…” I managed to mutter “I’ll leave...I didn’t mean anythi…”
“Shut the fuck up! Now I told you twice you little faggot and you just don’t listen…do you know what it feels like to get shot?” he yelled.
“No I don’t…”
Still holding the pistol at me he lifted the bottom of his shirt up revealing what looked like a healed over mass of burnt flesh, pink and white in contrast to his brown skin. Little peck marks surrounded the main hole. Obviously he had been hit with a shotgun at rather close range.
Maybe it was my facial expression, maybe he was just making a statement, but as soon as he showed me the wound he began to lower the gun and back away.
“Unless you want to end up dead motherfucker, I would take that stupid ass camera and get the fuck out of here.”
I turned, exited and walked back across the tracks. In a daze I found my truck, and began to head west. Not sure about what had happened, about what I was doing or where I was going.
I finally ended up in Phoenix a few days later. This was the first portrait I took after my run in with THE Man.
I am reading the new book "Digital Capture After Dark" by Amanda Quintenz-Fiedler and Philipp Scholz Rittermann. The book intrigues me again on the night photography.
But I am born to be a lazy photographer. I do not want to go to the remote or exotic places for night photography. I do not shoot RAW and I do not use a lot of post-production techniques as suggested by the writers. I don't even use DSLR for night shooting as everyone said compact camera has too much noise in the small sensor.
Anyways I just walk in the back alley in my neighbourhood and shoot in JPEG. I am just too lazy to fiddle around the white balance and therefore shoot in the B&W mode in-camera.
My photo club friends always tease me as crazy guy that associates photography with philosophy. Yes there is the philosophy that inspires you to see the beauty in mundane subjects and I believe there is a special charisma of night too. When the night falls, you can see some sort of special beauty even in a back alley.
Do you think so?
Happy weekend!
Fuji X10
ISO 400 F5.6 1.8 second
Back in 2019, when Freightliner was in charge of this diaily service, 66532 heads slowly into the small village of Bedlinog working 6C93 Cwmbargoed to Port Talbot.