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This autograph album belonged to Ollie Hubbard. I uploaded 50 of the 100 autographs that I liked the best. I am not sure if Ollie was a boy or a girl. (Ollie short for Oliver or Ollie short for Olivia, Olive, Olwen). The dates range from 1879 to 1889. Most of the names are from Trenton or Princeton, New Jersey. This may be Princeton University. There are references to the following names:
Model School
State Normal School
Trenton College
Princeton College
C. C. C. C.
A complete list of all the names is in the "set" description here.
Just so everyone knows I'm okay, just busy writing and other thngs, so no new pictures for a while. I'll be back eventually.
Keio University is a private, comprehensive higher education institution located on six campuses spread across the Greater Tokyo area. It offers an environment of academic and research excellence in a wide range of fields, and includes a university hospital. Founded in 1858, it is Japan’s first modern institution of higher learning, and over the last century and a half it has established itself as a leader in Japan through its continued commitment to education, research and medicine.
Keio has its origins in the school of Western learning established by Yukichi Fukuzawa, a school which soon evolved into a major center of learning. As a highly respected educator and intellectual, Fukuzawa was one of the pioneers of modern Japan. He aspired for Keio to become a model and leader of society, stressing the importance of learning that is based on jitsugaku, or “science”. In today’s changing world, Keio upholds its founder’s spirit of science as it continues to fulfill his aspiration.
TRUMP TAX PLAN TRICKLE DOWN GOLDEN SHOWER Sticker on Street Sign at DuPont Circle South and New Hampshire Avenue, NW, Washington DC on Sunday afternoon, 11 March 2018 by Elvert Barnes Photography
WRITINGS ON THE WALL / Stickers
Trip to Washington DC for visit to Staples (Desktop Computer Issues)
Instagram at www.instagram.com/p/BgP51GeH94u/
Writing can be many things.
At its best, sometimes . . .
Writing is a conversation with eternity.
As with any conversation, written words can die out and no longer be heard.
But one of the marvels and beauties of written words is they can endure into the future. They can be a gift to people you will never meet, people who come along long after you’re gone.
A writer doesn’t need to focus on the now. A writer can consider tomorrow and always.
Terry came over and finished the sign writing yesterday and what a lovely job he has done.
We had to wait a week for him to return and do the black shadow work which really sets the writing off.
Notice the period tax disc and the 'C' licence in the window.
Now that you don't have to display a current tax disc, you can now put a period one in the window which is a nice touch.
@Madmarv IRL.
Taking an idea from Valdezign,
I bought some light toys from houseofrave.com. I'm liking the sauce color light wand. You can hold it like a pen, aim the light towards your camera and pretend to write on a whiteboard. That's how I made this pic without learning how to write backwards.
A detail of the Medical Arts Column on the campus of Thomas Jefferson University, Philadelphia. Check it out at night, if you get chance ...
Cambridge, England
June 12, 2015
©Dale Haussner
From Dave O’Malley’s Lunch at the Eagle :
"Among the scores of squadron numbers, we find a latin phrase: “Alis Nocturnus – On the Wings of the Night, is the motto of 58 Squadron, Royal Air Force, a bomber squadron of the RAF which was in Coastal Command and operated from RAF St. Eval in Cornwall. It is possible that the crew or a crew member was visiting Cambridge. At the bottom of this photo we see the faux-Chinese saying “Ding Hy!” similar to Ding Hao!, an expression in common usage in the USAAF in the Second World War, meaning Very Good or The Best or Number One! – first used by American Volunteer Group pilot and ace Colonel James Howard on his famous P-51B Ding Hao!."
Dave O'Malley's "Lunch at the Eagle"-
"There are places in this world that are imbued with a spiritual power beyond their utility. Most are grand. Westminster Abbey for instance contains the history, the power, the empire and even the bones of all England. The Hermitage in St Petersburg rises grandly from the banks of the Neva, containing within its baroque flourish the wealth and tragedy of the Romanoffs, the Blue Mosque in Istanbul resounds with the glory of Islam. These are the repositories of human emotion, religious belief, and political tectonics – nexus points in a shared remembrance. In them lives a soul - palpable, unavoidable, life changing. Not all these nexi are on the scale of Westminster Abbey. Some reveal their ghosts only to acolytes, and to those who search. Some are so ordinary, they are not even on maps.
In Cambridge, England, near the slow drift of the River Cam, on the north side of Bene’t Street, stands the Eagle Pub one of these rare holy places. A public house like thousands throughout the United Kingdom, The Eagle might never reveal itself to the ordinary thirsty tourist and student. But if they take the time, look up to the deep red and burnished lacquer of the ceiling scrawled with strange runes, they might see into the past, and if they cock their heads just right, they may hear the voices. Those young voices.
Imagine, if you will. It’s late in the evening on a cold and damp Suffolk winter night. 1943. The blackout curtains are drawn tight, though there is not much chance of German bombers overhead Cambridge lately. Outside, in the dark, lightless sky, the last remnants of a Lancaster raid thunder towards the Channel. Inside the air is blue with tobacco smoke, layered and swirling, the floors sticky with Green King Ale, and the walls glow orange from the dim electric lights and the flicker of the fireplace. Shoulder to shoulder at the bar and on the benches, are young men, boys by today’s measure. They wear the rough blue serge of the RAF and Commonwealth air forces. Small groups wear the browns and greens of the USAAF. They are loud and bawdy and many are drunk. All are on a reprieve for the next few hours - from the war, their duty, and death. They sing louder, shout rougher words and laugh more forcibly than they have ever done.
There are other pubs across Cambridge where the same thing is happening – for there are many men who have come into town tonight – from the surrounding fighter bases of Duxford, Debden or Fowlmere, the big bomber bases of Oakington, Alconbury, Mildenhall and Bassingbourn. They jostle and shove and shout as they enter the pubs – tonight they will get drunk. They have a few comrades to remember and a thousand things to forget.
Some time after ten in the back room of the Eagle Pub on Bene’t Street, one boisterous Royal Air Force Mosquito navigator, shoves the glasses of beer aside on his table and places his chair on top. Amid the shouts of his friends, he climbs the table and the chair and teetering there, pulls out his Zippo, clinks the top open and thumb-rolls it life. Carefully, with one hand steadying him on the ceiling he traces the number of his squadron using the black smudge of the soot that rises from the dancing flame. Slowly, the numbers form -139 – a pathfinder squadron. Its pilots and navigators like this 22 year-old from Moncton, New Brunswick are the best of the best –and they know it. And they love to proclaim it. As he traces the numbers, the other boys from other squadrons shout encouragement in the form of expletives. Laughter and hearty songs rise like flames from the crowd. Much of it you can tell is forced. As he finishes, the navigator, a Flight Sergeant, steps down from the chair but slips on a puddle of beer on the table. There is a clatter, the chair tumbles, glass breaks and he falls back to be caught by his comrades, cigarette still dangling from his lip like a warrior. The entire pub cheers.
Not to be outdone, an American lieutenant, a tall B-17 pilot from nearby Bassingbourn, stands on a table in the middle of the main room. He calls to a local girl sitting below him – asking for her lipstick. It’s hard to come by these days, but she is in the moment too, and surely taken by the free-spending, pomaded, young man from Hopkinsville, Tennessee. She tosses him a gold tube from her purse. With his buddies cheering and the girls watching, his head cocked way back, he draws a large, crude effigy of a naked woman wearing naught but a cigarette, drawn over dozens of smoky squadron numbers, aircraft nicknames and bomber group numbers. Perhaps it is a copy of his bomber’s nose art. The crowd howls with every stroke. He lingers on the details of the breasts. The women look slightly bemused, even a bit embarrassed. The young boys love it. The Tennessee Volunteer declares that the vixen be hereafter named after Ethel, the landlady of the pub, who has thrown him out on occasion.
The RAF fighter boys boo and shout, somewhat jealous of the free-spending Yanks, but they are all in it together. There are no bare-knuckle fistfights tonight, but there have been a few before. Tomorrow they will launch ramrods over the Channel. They save their anger for the Germans. Tomorrow night, next week, next month, some who were in the bar tonight would not return, their smoky writing on the ceiling the only witness that they had been this way.
By the end of the war, the ceiling of the Eagle Pub would be covered deep in this graffiti of nights and years of heartbreak and sodden release – sooted in place by candles, burnt corks or Zippos, written in the hazy smoke of memory. The tradition of writing on the ceiling of The Eagle’s was started in 1940 by an English airman by the name of P.E. Turner, who wrote his name there. Following his lead, flyers and infantrymen would inscribe their units, groups, aircraft nicknames and airfield names for nearly ten years.
Back in the early 1980s, the meaning of the writings on the ceiling had long since drifted away as did the airmen – back to their homes. The strange numerals and letters looked to most like meaningless graffiti from another time. A former RAF technician named James Chainey decided to research the numbers and names and record them for posterity. Today, a list of all the names and numbers and their meanings is written and hung on the wall, so that visitors can come to understand.
This past week with my beloved Susan, I drank a Green King Ale and bellied up to a hearty plate of Bangers and Mash, sitting at the window of the RAF Bar of the Eagle. Next to us a young Canadian student was trying to impress a blonde from Australia, and tourists chattered loudly. I could not take my eyes off that ceiling, nor could I stop myself from sensing the ghosts, hearing the voices. Here I was where they had been, where they had left their marks. I knew that they were written here as a form of piss-posting, marking territory, elbowing for identity. Little did they know, nor probably care, that these marks would remain for nearly 70 years and perhaps for centuries. In Canada, they would have been removed for a remodeling, and the Eagle Pub would have become a soulless club – with a name like “e” (lower case intended) or “Live”. But in England, where just 65 years before, the skies above had filled with the thunder of a thousand-plane raid, where thousands of young men were sacrificed at the altar of freedom, the memory of those boys would never have been consigned to the landfill.
Should you ever find yourself in Suffolk, or Norfolk or England for that matter, you must quaff an ale at The Eagle. Take the time to read the names and numbers, to hear the voices. For they are the voices of our fathers and our grandfathers.
As I left The Eagle, I looked down the lane to the RAF Bar, imagined pilots and navigators and gunners smoking outside, chatting up the "birds". Out on Bene't Street, I imagined I saw those boys in blue, backs to me, walking away, singing, arm in arm... fading into the darkness of a blacked-out night. The stone walls of the narrow streets resounding with their song. I could almost hear the echoing refrains of that wartime favourite of servicemen:
"Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me
Anyone else but me, anyone else but me, no, no, no
Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me
'Til I come marchin' home
Sadly, many of them did not come marching home.
Dave O'Malley
The two scenarios of the airmen writing on the ceiling in this article are of course poetic licence only. There is no way that we will ever know the exact history of the day they were written and who specifically wrote them - this is only meant to set the scene for your imagination."
* www.vintagewings.ca/VintageNews/Stories/tabid/116/article...
Photo © Tristan Savatier - All Rights Reserved - License this photo on www.loupiote.com/6351935901
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Handwriting in Chinese
On her return flight to Beijin, a young Chinese girl is writing notes about her recent travel in the US.
If you like this photo, follow me on instagram (tristan_sf) and don't hesitate to leave a comment or email me.
I like to keep a walking diary as it will make interesting reading in years to come..i like to get out most days..When i am old and grey i shall enjoy looking back at them.Good and bad memories will come flooding back.
My postcard series for Surface Research with the theme, “Wish You Were Here”. See the rest of the series on my Tumblr.
Megan's New Tattoo
I can't believe how chrisp and perfect this writing is.
Done dy Amanda Trobl at Tatarama
3834 Bloor Street West
Toronto, Ontario
There was nothing to write with or on in my room last night. At 4 AM I used lipstick on the mirror to write a note about a marvelously interesting dream I did not want to forget.
File name: 10_03_001816b
Binder label: Home Furnishings
Title: Payson's combination (back)
Created/Published: Boston : U. S. Eng. Co.
Date issued: 1870 - 1900 (approximate)
Physical description: 1 print : lithograph ; 9 x 14 cm.
Genre: Advertising cards
Subject: Writing materials
Notes: Title from item.
Collection: 19th Century American Trade Cards
Location: Boston Public Library, Print Department
Rights: No known restrictions.
bellissima frase autoreferenziale, più originale del classico "qui non c'è scritto niente"
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"i am dirting without reason".
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*** (CC)BY 4.0 prof.Bizzarro www.bazardelbizzarro.net ***
Calligraphy Love Quote -
You are one of the people I never asked from God, he gave you.
I asked him why,
he said,
"Because she can fill your life as no one else can."
"The shadows on your face
sent to create, mysteriousness
to embrace your shapes
By full light a secret is revealed
The truth is boring
The truth is real
Shut the light and let me dream"
I came home after a long day. I saw the nearly full moon (waning gibbous?) and took a blurry photo. I took another. No dice. Then, I realized I could write with the moon.
The extra non-Moon light trails occurred when I kept panning after the "n" ended.
And actually, it's edited in that I had to rotate it 180 degrees.
Maybe I shouldn't admit this,but I was born in 1959(I know I come across as a young lad!) and actually was in a crib about 5 miles from this farm at that time.I always wondered when the first frost was that year,and the question of when the corn tasseled that year was burning a hole in my soul!LOL
The Robert Pocock Herbarium Project was funded by the Heritage Lottery Fund and supported by the Kent Wildlife Trust and the Natural History Museum. Its aim was to search the Natural History Museum herbaria to find the c240 plant specimens collected by Robert Pocock of Gravesend in the early 19th century. The aims also included making and exhibiting images of this unique record of Kent's botanical heritage, giving talks to local people on this subject and creating a website detailing all available information. The Project began in September 2013 and is on-going.
Studying examples of Robert Pocock's handwriting helped us to identify his herbarium specimens from the labels.