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A person without a sense of humor is like a wagon without springs. It's jolted by every pebble on the road.
Henry Ward Beecher
Yeah! I have much sense of humor until can laugh to myself when I have clumsy:))
Today, do you laugh something? then please....
The bokeh sky in my garden, I captured through the pine tree.
Thank you to laugh:)
Panorama without tripod
CZ Contax Distagon 35/1.4
Hyperfocal Focusing, Aperture f/11, 1/60 sec., ISO 200
+ KENKO Zeta EX PL-C 67
+ Cokin ND GRADUAL FILTER
+ Lee Universal Hood
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For 52 weeks for dogs,
Leia and her yellow frisbee. She loves it, there are very few photos of Leia on the beach without frisbee. We hope not to lose it, we have it for a long time.
Nice week
Seen in
the ORIGINAL 52 Weeks for Dogs
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Professional Photo Tour 2009 ABAIMAGEN
Chiapas México
this image is NOT for donation, if you are interested in some image, please contact me andrade@abaimagen.com
Dot not use IT ! Copyright
Tahai, Rapa Nui, Easter Island, Chile.
The three ahu of Tahai
But without a doubt, the great focus of attention at Tahai are its three ahu or ceremonial platforms located on the small rocky cliff that rises above the sea. The altars form a visual line that stars in this magnificent setting. If you look straight at the platforms, the first group on the left with five moai statues is the Ahu Vai Uri, the next one is the Ahu Tahai and the last one with a single statue wearing a pukao or hat is the Ahu Ko Te Riku.
Ahu Vai Uri
The Ahu Vai Uri, whose name could be translated as dark water or green water, is the platform with the largest number of erected statues. Its construction dates from 1200 AD. and its five restored moai are a sample of the different styles of how they were carved.
The first one on the right is currently a piece of rock that is barely recognizable. However, the one that follows, much better preserved as such as the first on the left, has a lower and more robust body than the rest and shows a grim expression.
Ahu Tahai
Ahu Tahai has a single solitary moai about 4.5 meters high. The figure, which is very eroded, shows a thick torso and a wide neck, and rises on the oldest platform of the complex built around 700 AD.
Despite the enormous wear suffered by the moai over time, it still shows the greatness and pride of the ancestors they represent and, in some way, still transmits that mythical power called mana.
Ahu Ko Te Riku
Ahu Ko Te Riku is the last and singular platform located further north. Above it rises a single moai of 5.1 meters high that was restoredwith all the elements that adorned the old finished statues.
On his head it carries a pukao, a cylindrical piece carved in red scoria from the Puna Pau volcano. This form, which according to different opinions, represents a hat or a hair bun, was placed in the last phase of construction of the ahu. It is believed that the original pukaoof this moai was used to carve the Christian cross that is found in the nearby cemetery to Tahai, but there is not even the certainty that it had one. The other differentiating element of Ahu Ko Te Riku is that it supports the only moai that has eyes of the whole island.
For video, please visit youtu.be/b3LaCk0laBo
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9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
I may never ask random people for a portrait, but experimenting with flash has its own magic. This image is a reminder that creativity finds its way, even without a crowd.
variations
©MadDreamer ©2👽23/ All rights reserved. Do not use without written permission from photographer.
Sunset in the San Juan Islands of Puget Sound in northwest Washington state.
All my photographs are © Copyrighted and All Rights Reserved. None of these photos may be reproduced and/or used in any form of publication, print or the Internet without my written permission.
and we'll, sing it back to you. we could sing our own, but what would it, be without you?
the following is my entry for a competition at the morris museum we're doing in lit. it's inspired by a painting.
“Do you think this tie suitable?” the old man asked, his cerulean eyes fixed in gentle understanding, slightly oversized ears hearing something in the following silence. After just a moment he gave a quaint smile to the object below him, nodding his head and chuckling emptily, “yes, I did think you would. The maroon matches so nicely with you.” He ended his sentence as though it were a question, turning away from the polka dotted maroon loveseat and entering the dingy building behind him with some sort of sad agreement.
Speaking as though not just to himself, the old man continued, “I rather like cloudy days. Everything feels so clear without the sun,” he laughed, “speaking of those, Roger has said he would come visit the store this morning. That’s the cause for the tie.”
Clearing his throat nervously as if second-guessing the tie, the man began his daily routine, which was today accelerated in order to make a nice impression upon this visitor. He hobbled around the store swiftly as his rheumatoid arthritis would allow, smiling halfheartedly with an honestly worried look about his face. His anxiety was visibly rising with the sun, and he made nearly continual glances out of the murky shop window towards the loveseat, as if just to make sure it was still there. He moved the delicate, dusky objects within the shop as if to reorganize his mind, as well.
After a few hours of feeble attempts at work and understated chaos, an attractive, middle-aged man arrived at the door with a black briefcase. He had a serious look about his face, with a consciously furrowed brow and a slight frown of anticipation, yet he approached the old man in the shop with a sudden smile. The old man returned the gesture and gave the visitor a weak pat on the shoulder.
“Nice to see you, Roger, nice to see you. How are things at the firm?”
“Fair, I’d say, after this case we had last week – repetitive theft and larceny, crook got away clean. I suppose it was mostly my newest hire, man from Darlington. Quite a turnout, quite a turnout, indeed,” replied Roger.
There was a blaring silence as the old man returned from his mysterious distraction.
“Lovely to hear that, lovely,” he muttered in a blank monotone, looking significantly more anxious. He made a sideways glance out of the window and muttered some sort of plea under his breath in pining as the attorney sat down in a creaky chair.
The furrowed brow of the sitting man returned as he looked around the dirty shop.
“Listen,” he said, opening his black briefcase, “that isn’t what I came to talk about. I know it’s been difficult. None of us are immune to that.”
The old man stared out the window as his breathing accelerated. He interrupted the defined lines of his face with a heavy blink and stayed perfectly still, rooted to the spot. The attorney sighed in frustration and fumbled through his briefcase until he found a glossy booklet. He stared at it for a fleeting moment and sighed again deeply.
“Dad,” the man continued, “I know what this shop is to you. It’s been in the family for years – but just look around. Look what you’re living in. This is getting dreadfully out of hand.”
Roger stopped, aggravated by his father’s seeming indifference and lack of cooperation. He locked the shiny buckles of his briefcase and stood up as the chair creaked in protest beneath him. His brow furrowed impossibly further, and he cleared his throat with determination.
“Look. I know you don’t want to do this, but bottom line, you can’t handle living here anymore. I’ve found a nice place at the edge of town. It’s called Brookhaven. They’ll be coming soon. I know it’s going to be difficult for you to leave, but ever since Mum died…”
The old man burst from his silence in a hysterical high-pitched wail and cradled his head in his hands. He began hobbling towards the open door, towards the polka-dotted maroon loveseat, where it was two summers ago and everything was as it should still be.
Before his knees could allow the old man to reach the door, the attorney took his arms behind his back and held him still. His son was shorter but much stronger than he, and the old man continued to scream and struggle in the attorney’s grip. After what seemed like an eternity the old man was partially released as Roger voiced,
“Now, you’re going to stay still. They’ll be here any minute now, and I’ll go with you to help get your things situated. Don’t try to run off.”
Nearly as he finished his sentence an old tan station wagon pulled up on the curb. A plump woman in scrubs with even plumper hair and plum lips opened the passenger door and walked around the front of the car towards the old man and his son. She nodded briefly at Roger and then turned to the old man with an overly sweet smile and degrading stare. He was still visibly upset, but obviously put off by the woman’s bigotry.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she articulated towards the old man, “we’ve got all of your things nice and ready to go.”
After few more indistinguishable words she pseudosmiled again and took the old man’s arm vigorously and guided him into the car. His face expressed insane defiance, but his body had somehow surrendered to this inconsiderate torture. He climbed into the backseat of the station wagon and stared out of its window, one which was familiarly filthy, like the one in the front of his store. He began to bang on the window, wailing and crying again like an infant, staring at the polka-dotted maroon loveseat.
No, they had not gotten all of his things./b>
Up on a hill beyond Glass Beach is a cemetery that dates back to the 19th century, a burial ground for workers at the McBryde Sugar Company's plantation. The small cemetery overlooking the ocean is filled with gravestones in Japanese and English that was only recently rediscovered.
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Warm weather please come soon ♥
Model is the lovely Hannah.
We were shooting this in my neighbors field and she came out of her house all flustered and worried cuz she thought Hannah was a dead deer. yeaa...
Dr. Nick (without his usual band the Rollercoasters) was an unscheduled guest of Gary Kendall on Sunday 'Blues in the Alley'. Mike Fitzpatrick drums, Gary Kendall on bass, Sugar Brown -vocals, harmonica and guitar and Jake Chisholm-vocals and guitar.
Nick Ouroumov plays his blues in the city for at least 20 years. Not sure what the paintings at Alleycats may represent, but the colours suggest joy of music.
79. TMR 2020- Jan-12, P1330148; (2020 January, Alleycats) Uploaded 15. Jan 2019. No.79, Lmx -ZS100)
I have my own particular sorrows, loves, delights , and you have yours. But sorrow, gladness, yearning, hope, love, belong to all of us, in all times and in all places. Music is the only means whereby we feel these emotions in their universality .
都忘記去年在阿里山上有不小心拍到這個了 !
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A single juniper tree growing out of a small patch of dirt between the enormous rocks lining the Cohab Trail in the Capitol Reef National Park.
All my photographs are © Copyrighted and All Rights Reserved. None of these photos may be reproduced and/or used in any form of publication, print or the Internet without my written permission.
Reedited: February 23, 2010
If you truly love Nature, you will find beauty everywhere.
~ Vincent Van Gogh
The Nooksack river runs along the Mt. Baker Highway in western Washington State.
All my photographs are © Copyrighted and All Rights Reserved. None of these photos may be reproduced and/or used in any form of publication, print or the Internet without my written permission.
Everybody's looking for that something
One thing that makes it all complete
You'll find it in the strangest places
Places you never knew it could be
Some find it in the face of their children
Some find it in their lover's eyes
Who can deny the joy it brings
When you've found that special thing
You're flying without wings
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Mashallah please
she was sick when i took the shot ;**
The poor damselfly is still trying to fly away, while being in the bee-eaters mouth!! quite funny if your not the damselfly.
No Gambia images would be complete without the beautiful bee-eaters, of which I have so many to chose from, They are sparrow sized (17Cm length) continually feeding, also we witnessed mating and the digging of nest holes in banks while there.
Thanks for this visit, have now processed all the images hoo ray! Any comments are very appreciated, and find encouraging..........Tomx
Was just about to leave without taking a shot due to a flat grey sky when the sky started to slowly turn a wonderful pink colour. Managed to get the camera setup just in time to take 5 shots before it the sky turned back to grey.
Didn't have time to find the best spot but think this composition works quiet well.
This is a single shot, taken with a .6 soft grad filter.
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Art without paint, only with a high-pressure cleaner (Kärcher). Artist Klaus Dauven on the initiative of ViArt asbl as part of KonschTour. Pictures of the workers who built the pumped storage power station for electricity in 1959. When the European power grid has too much electricity, we pump water into an artificial lake, when we need electricity, we lower it down to dynamos.
© Jerry T Patterson - All Rights Reserved Worldwide In Perpetuity - No Unauthorized Use. Absolutely no permission is granted in any form, fashion or way, digital or otherwise, to use my Flickr images on blogs, personal or professional websites or any other media form without my direct written permission.
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Equipment: Canon 5D Mark III, Canon 16-35mm f2.8L II USM lens
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In September 2015, I was scouting out and photographing numerous sites around Lake Tahoe, California and many sites in the Eastern Sierras for a short 5 days.
One the night of September 17, I took the Bonsai Rock Milky Way shot with the moon just above the distant mountain peaks.
The next day we moved down into the Eastern Sierras where I had been planning to photograph the iconic bristlecone pine tree with the Milky Way. Little did I know on the way down how well the moon would come into play with my night sky photography work there.
I used a long established technique to get the moon rays in this shoot while I light painted the bristlecone pine tree with my special light.
In 2017, I will have two 5 day Milky Way photography workshop in Arches National Park in Moab, Utah, one over the 3rd week in March and one over the 3rd week in April.
During each of the two workshops, I will conduct 3 4+ hour Milky Way Photoshop post processing session where I teach all the techniques I used to create this final photo but this time it will be more of what is called a "Deep Dive" PS post processing session and workshop participants will need a laptop with Photoshop CS 2017. Lightroom will work but lacks some functionality used in what I will teach.
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My Milky Way night sky photography workshops
In 2017, I will be leading two 4 day photography workshops in Jackson Hole. During both workshops, I will take my group out for 3 nights of my Milky Way night sky workshop.
My 2017 4-5 day photography workshop schedule:
ANP, Canyonlands & Monument Valley - March 24-29
Icons of the Southwest w/Ryan Smith - April 23-28
Jackson Hole, Wyoming spring - June 21-25
Jackson Hole, Wyoming fall - September 19-23
The great part is that in 2017 I will return to Jackson Hole for the incredible wildflowers throughout the valley and the surrounding mountains.
Do you shoot the Milky Way but need a little help in getting the Milky Way to jump out of your photos ? If so, take a look at my ebook A Photographer's Milky Way Processing Guide - A Photoshop HowTo
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You may also find me at: .. Amazon || Smashwords || 500px || 72dpi || Google+ || facebook || Instagram
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Time to chill out to Adele's song ... Hello.
Thanks for stopping by.
Please do not reproduce, publish or otherwise use this image in any way without my prior written permission. © All rights reserved
without branch - this was kindly done by a fellow flickerite - who has photoshop - the magic wand of the photo world. It makes a difference don't you think?
All thanks to Greg fellow flickrite of GBurwash - he's the man with the photoshop - and the skill of course - Thanks Greg. Diolch
Without having a shoot a picture each day i felt i have not been pushing myself lately to become a better photographer. In the mist of my 365 project i would always have to be thinking of an idea or a way to get the shot of the day. Without this constant pressure i have become lazy leaving my camera to collect dust. I asked my friend joy when would she be free to shoot. Lucky for me she had tuesday off of work so we quickly made plans. I didn't have any theme or idea in mind for the shoot so when she asked where we were going i just stated hmm we could do a cute playground shoot. I usually love winter in california but with the sun setting so fast there is zero time after work and the gym to shoot with any available light. I went to pick up joy and faced heavy traffic, i guess today was some peoples friday in the shadow of the thanksgiving weekend. When i arrived joy suggest we go to a place she knew of in the city of cerritos. I really didn't have a clear cut vision for the shoot so i went with her idea. The location was pretty nice. it was a garden type area with statues and odd landscape. The shoot could of not gone better which is odd since something always goes wrong during one of my shoots. After editing a few pictures for joy it was time to take her home. We hit a wall of traffic on the 91 freeway an exit from her house. There was a serious accident closing down the entire freeway. While we sat and waited in the car i saw steam coming from my engine. I panicked and pulled to the side of the road. This wasn't the first time my car had this problem. About 4 months back the thermostat went out causing my car to overheat. I feared it happened again so i poured any water i could find in my car into the radiator and got joy home. While at her house i filled the radiator to the brim and noticed it was almost completely bone dry. Lucky i was able to make it home and to work today with no issues so i hope my car just needed water.
strobist: sb-800 on the left of the camera bare, sb-600 on the right of the camera bare. trigged with nikon cls in ttl mode
Without self-confidence we are as babes in the cradle. And how can we generate this imponderable quality, which is yet so invaluable, most quickly? By thinking that other people are inferior to oneself.
Paris without "Le Louvre" is not Paris. And yes THEY DID IT! with an awesome hud system to retrieve information about the art.
Cette photo est dédiée to Olympe Rhode, Nepat et Dame Igaly.
Visit this location at Musee du Louvre - Louvre Museum in Second Life