Various authors . Illustrated by Ruth M. bishop. The Mermaid’s Message and Other Stories. Springfield, Mass., Milton Bradley Company, 1919.
Today’s book is also a Get Well Soon card for Giliell, who I think is into Mermaids.
Or “being too smart for your own good”. Many photographers have nice expensive gear and then set everything on “automatic” and wonder why their pics are not that nice. Well, I’d never do that but do most of my adjustments by hand so I can get the best results. Except for when I forget about something. So here’s the question for the fellow camera addicts: Why do Giliell’s pics have this annoying blueish tint?
©Giliell, all rights reserved
©Giliell, all rights reserved
Here you can see the different style of later architects who worked at the cathedral after Gaudi’s death: sharper lines, more influenced by cubism than modernisme.
©Giliell, all rights reserved
©Giliell, all rights reserved
Write your guesses in the comments and I’ll tell you if you’re right tomorrow.
©voyager, all rights reserved
Yesterday I mentioned that Jack has difficulty seeing in the dark. I forgot to mention that Jack also has trouble being seen in the dark. His coat is such a deep chocolate brown that when he steps out of the puddles of streetlight, he all but vanishes. That’s a worry because Jack has a nasty habit of eating things he happens upon, things that are probably not good for him to eat like garbage, poop and the occasional small dead creature. Last night he managed to swallow something before I could stop him. I have no idea what it was as there were no bits of it left to identify, but I’m sure it wasn’t a healthy snack. I jammed my hand into his mouth, hoping to fish it out, but I was too late. Jack smiled, licked my fingers and walked on, leaving me standing there dripping drool and hoping for the best. So far, so good.
Margaret Barnes Price. Daddy’s Widow, A Long Island Story. New York, Broadway Publishing, 1916.
From the days before misogyny ended. Oh wait…. that still hasn’t happened yet. Never mind.
Opus has sent us something special – a lovely story accompanied by some gorgeous photos. Enjoy.
When I was growing up in north Georgia, in the early 1960s, my mother always grew moon vines. I remember that the seeds needed a lot of help to germinate – soaking, followed by nicking with a nail file. The vines were nothing special, much like many members of the morning glory family. However, unlike morning glories, moon vines bloom in the evening. Mom always grew them in pots on the front porch, to make it easier to keep an eye on them. In my hazy memories, they always opened as darkness fell. Earlier this summer I ran across some seeds and decided to see if they were as beautiful as I remembered.
The plant has had two blooms so far, with more on the way. I missed the first; was busy inside and just didn’t notice until the next morning.. I was alert the next evening, and the bloom was well on its way to opening by early evening when I checked.
I had not seen one bloom in well over 50 years and had forgotten: it was spectacular. I usually do plant photography in the studio, with lots of light and gadgets galore. This was just an iPhone, and a truly mind-boggling subject. No edits, no cropping, no tweaking.
I have nothing to add to the pictures.
Well, one thing: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ipomoea_alba
©Opus, all rights reserved
Click through to see the magnificent flowers. [Read more…]
Let’s stop with all the hospital talk for a while, because I’m getting sick and tired of it. Seriously, I was not made for “long, slow recoveries, but I guess few people are. There are so many more pictures from the holiday, so let’s dwell on that beauty.
These pictures showcase the architectural elements inside the cathedral, which are just as beautiful as the windows. I love the light stones.
©Giliell, all rights reserved
©Giliell, all rights reserved
©Giliell, all rights reserved
©Giliell, all rights reserved
©Giliell, all rights reserved
©Giliell, all rights reserved
©voyager, all rights reserved
The days of autumn agree with me and I enjoy so many things at this time of year. I love the crisp air that energizes Jack and getting to watch day by day as rich reds and flame oranges appear in the trees. It’s time to start making hearty soups and stews and casseroles with the bounty of local produce filling the market stalls and it’s time to turn on the oven and bake things full of apples. Fall is such a wonderful season. It would be absolutely perfect… if only the days were a little longer.
It’s dark now when Jack and I take our evening walk and Jack’s eyesight isn’t good in the dark anymore. He’s easily frightened by shadows and he tends to bark at things that aren’t normally around, like all the new political signs popping up on lawns around the neighbourhood. The political signs scare me a bit, too, especially since my neighbourhood is sporting quite a few Conservative signs this election season. Nobody wants to look at that nonsense so the photo today was taken late yesterday afternoon from our favourite forest path.
I apologize to Avalus for taking so long to post these photos. I received them near the end of August when things were hectic for me and I didn’t have consistent access to the internet. They’re beautiful pictures and I’m delighted to share them today.
Here is a beautiful butterfly. It might be a popular monarch (Limenitis populi) or a white admiral (Limenitis camilla), but I am not sure. In German they are called big and small Eisvogel (Kingfisher).
©Avalus, all rights reserved
©Avalus, all rights reserved
©Avalus, all rights reserved
©Avalus, all rights reserved
Arthur Emerson McFarlane. Illustrations by Thomas Fogarty. Great Bear Island. Boston, Little, Brown and Co., 1911.
You’ve all been waiting for this topic, right?
For somebody working with teenagers, I still got a very sensitive nose, especially when the body concerned is mine and it’s also “amazing” what your mind can fixate on. Here’s the truth: being sick stinks. First of all, while my brain knew what happened, my body was still trying to run away from a sabertooth tiger that had just pierced my leg or something. In other words, it was ramming up the response, trying to mobilise as much energy as possible, resulting in me sweating like an ox. The second, and more lasting thing is medical stink. All the medication needs to get out of your system again and part of it just goes out via your skin. And it’ll keep doing that for a while, so I#m off to take a shower first and use some very sweet smelling body butter afterwards.
You’ll excuse me.
Ralph Henry Barbour. The Story My Doggie Told to Me. New York, Dodd Mead, 1914.
And so ends Dog Week. If you like the idea of theme weeks let me know because I have a few other ideas. I’m also open to any suggestions you may have so just let me know here in the comments or drop me a line at affinitysubmissions@gmail.com. The address is in the sidebar just below the colourful, percolating skull.
via: The Library of Congress, where you can read the book and see all of the charming illustrations.
Or: getting older just means more opportunities to expand your horizon on “the worst thing that ever happened to me.
As mentioned before, I’m not very loud about pain. As a kid I hurt myself regularly in the way kids do, and the more serious it was, the more quiet I got. I once seriously cut my finger making potato stamps and my mum only noticed when my sis asked why I got red paint and she didn’t. During my first Judo tournament I promptly broke my clavicle in my first fight. I told the people from the sports club that it hurt. Judging from my lack of crying, they told me it would be better in a few minutes and I went to fight another fight. Afterwards I really insisted that this hurt and was taken to the hospital. I said I was in pain, I expected people to believe me. For some reason I still do, despite all evidence.
Anyway, back when Caine posted about her back problems and the work with the pain clinic, I believed her, I understood, I felt empathy, but I didn’t really understand. Of course I’d been in pain before. You can’t break a couple of bones and have children without knowing pain, but I didn’t know Pain. Well, another acquaintance I didn’t particularly enjoy. The hospital was (mostly*) good with painkillers, it was a shame that I was in such a peak that even the morphine didn’t do much anymore. The amount of pain I was in would have been an indicator to transfer me to another hospital for surgery if the treatment of cortisol injections directly into the spine didn’t work. Which leads me from Pain to PAIN. The worst thing in the first days was sitting, as it put weight on my poor inflamed nerve, but in order for them to inject me into the spine I needed to sit and round my back. I simply jumped from the table twice. When we finally got down to it I was crying, whimpering and at the end more or less passing out. If PAIN has a bigger sibling, I never want to meet them.
*Sometimes there are nurses who take it upon themselves to decide that you are really not in that much pain and shouldn’t have painkiller. No, not even fucking metamizol, which is usually effective and has lower (but not no risks) than the alternatives.
Hector the Dog. New York, McLaughlin Bros. 1904
Before Rin Tin Tin, Lassie and The Littlest Hobo there was Hector the Saint Bernard and his friends out there saving lives. Click through if you’d like to see more of the art and as always you can click the photos for full size.
via: The Internet Archive