And the sign says “Long-haired freaky people need not apply”
Lyrics from Signs by Five Man Electric Band
A random selection of shots taken earlier today on the streets of Las Vegas.
signs
Places
Blending the right ingredients
I am not anonymous.
What you see here is the real deal. Me. For better, or for worse.
I chose a long time ago to write here under my own name. I respect the rights of those who choose to write under a pseudonym. It’s a time honoured writing device.
Here on WordPress, in this vibrant and supportive community, I’ve learned a lot about writing, social interaction, what works and what doesn’t. For the most part it’s been a great experience.
This week I’m mixing two worlds, my world of writing, poetry and photography, and my working world.
Continue reading
dinner
Today, meal times have been a little disrupted by flight times, and multiple time zone shifts.
I began the day at 04:45 in Spain.
A few hours later, I negotiated the multi-faceted joy that is clearing security for a business trip to the USA from Madrid.
Initially a little less than enthusiastic about riding Economy, to Dallas Fort Worth with American, I was delighted with my seat, an aisle, in a forward row of five with three empty seats so I could spread my stuff out with abandon. Food was not bad at all, lots of legroom and as much to drink as I could want (and a little more). Ok, it didn’t hold a candle to the comfort of flying with CL status on Qantas back in the day but hey, I enjoyed the flight and the crew were great.
After clearing security and customs in Dallas, I took a break for a Bud and a Jack Daniels (burger) in TGI. Acclimatisation.
And so, strapped in for my flight on to Vegas, here’s what I had for lunch, dinner or breakfast (insert meal time correspondinding to a timezone of your choice), edited with a little artistic licence.
Posted from seat 13D on a flight delayed due to too much wind in Vegas. Must be all the hot air generated by all those media types (yep, guilty as charged) gathering for the NAB show.
Oh, and remember not to congregate around the toilets, it will upset the Captain.
For wordpress weekly photo challenge – dinner
changing seasons | v2 | three
War is what happens when language fails
― Margaret Atwood
I had half a mind not to contribute to the challenge this month. No specific reason.
On my last trip through London, I was browsing the shelves of a bookstore that was offering discounts on a range of Penguin modern classics. One of the books I selected was Storm of Steel by Ernst Jünger. I have long had an interest in the first world war, initially inspired by reading various British poets and bibliographers, a visit with family members in search of a grave some ten years or more ago, and, more recently, by living in Belgium. A country that bears the scars of that futile conflict perhaps more than anywhere else. Scars that are perhaps deeper and less well healed than seem apparent at first sight.
Storm of Steel is written from the point of view of a German soldier in the trenches. The author makes no attempt to take sides, makes no particular political point, includes almost no contextual remarks and the narrative is at times almost claustrophobically restricted to the immediate surroundings of the protagonist. What appeals to me about the book is the opportunity to see some of the events that shaped our world from (for me at least) a fresh perspective.
The feeling conveyed by the book for me so far (I am only half way through because one of the other resolutions I didn’t make, in addition to reading more, was to get out and exercise more) is one of detachment and surreality. And, on top of that, there is a curious sense of equality between the soldiers entrenched on either side of the hell that is no mans land. They appear to have similar rules and abide by them. There are terrible scenes of carnage and brutality and yet, through (and despite) the horror, there seems to be a sense of fair play and straight forward behaviour. Even if the politics behind the war made, perhaps little sense, to the slaughtered millions, they at least appeared to know their enemy, understand their enemy.
Which brings me to the events of the last few days in Brussel.
How the seasons have changed in the last 100 years.
Our enemies are not in the opposite trench, badged and bearing arms under the flag of their country.
Our enemies now seem to move amongst us, one hand gloved as they wheel their death laden luggage trolley, unseen in plain site.
Their targets are not the uniformed soldiers across no mans land, men who knew what to expect (death mostly). Their targets are children, you and me waiting to board our flights, airport staff serving the needs of weary, frustrated travellers. Their targets are our peace of mind, our ability to live and move in freedom. Their rationale is alien to us, their means of attack incomprehensible, how can we understand the mind of persons who can walk into a checkout line and, with the press of a button, destroy themselves, innocent children, women and men, and our freedom?
One thing perhaps we can learn from the (not so) Great War, is that unleashing mind numbing retaliation in fury simply creates mud, pain, loss and despair.
As we mourn those who lost their lives this week, and all those who have lost their lives in similar circumstances over so many years of our generation, let us hold our blood lust in check, let us not lash out in fury.
Let us think, let us work together to find a way to deal with the root causes of the horror in our world. Let us not close our borders, our hearts and our minds. Let us continue to welcome those poorer than ourselves, those who carry a greater burden, those who have lost more than we can ever comprehend.
Now, more than ever, we need to stand tall, to show those who dare to intimidate us that our way is the way that will prevail.
United we stand.
Again.
for changing seasons | cardinal guzman | v2
*composite image created from a book cover shot using an iPhone 6S, and a screen shot of a typed page, both images previously published on my Instagram page*
project 365 mobile | mono | square | week 35
spiral staircase
phoneless selfie stick
orbit
back to basics
raindrops keep falling
mannequin pis
bulb
I launched this Project 365 on Sunday, 14 June 2015.
You can see all my images, as they are posted, each day, to my mobile | mono | square album on Flickr.
You can also review all my weekly updates, posted at noon each Sunday, by clicking here.
project 365 mobile | mono | square | week 34
iRobot
leffe jet
earthed
break stuff
urban jungle
urban buds
fired
I launched this Project 365 on Sunday, 14 June 2015.
You can see all my images, as they are posted, each day, to my mobile | mono | square album on Flickr.
You can also review all my weekly updates, posted at noon each Sunday, by clicking here.
project 365 mobile | mono | square | week 33
al fresco
every window tells a story
a partial pizza eclipse
reflected tram
rail perspective
reflective perspective
empty chair
I launched this Project 365 on Sunday, 14 June 2015.
You can see all my images, as they are posted, each day, to my mobile | mono | square album on Flickr.
You can also review all my weekly updates, posted at noon each Sunday, by clicking here.
changing seasons | v2 | one
time may change me
but you can’t trace time
– changes, david bowie, rip
for changing seasons | cardinal guzman | v2
*shot with nikon d700 and nikkor 50mm f/1.4 lens at ISO1250, 1/125s at f/1.4, lens correction applied in lightroom cc, no edits/filters*
poetry | 101 | rehab | roots
Home’s where you go when you run out of homes.
― John le Carré, The Honourable Schoolboy
Welcome to this week’s Poetry 1o1 Rehab Prompt.
My prompt is ROOTS.
This week, I have returned to my roots, or at least returned in a virtual sense through a collection of random memories of the place where I first became conscious.
I have been lucky, since then I have travelled far and wide. Yet, the echoes of long ago dreams, and nightmares, are never far away.
So, what do your roots mean to you?
of smoking chimney stacks
of green painted market stalls
of crumbly cheese, tripe, and onions
of foul smelling rivers
of windswept moors
of a red chair, that became too small
of ejector seats, deployed, in the surgery
of sweetie jars, all in a row
of sixpences, thre’penny bits, half crowns, and sovereigns
of windswept moors
of odds and sods, screws and nails
of rainy dark skies
of closed doors, closed hearts, closed minds
of spaceships, in closets
of windswept moors
of a marshal’s shiny star, they said it was real
of stone steps, push chair straps, and a broken nose
of water butts, deep, dark, repositories of long lost (toy) cars
of standing in the kitchen sink, to watch the steam train far below
of windswept moors
of coal fires, and coal sheds
of swings and slides
of snowflakes floating endlessly down from dark grey skies
of tiger and serpent, forever entwined
of windswept moors
of dank rhododendrons
of dreams and nightmares, wasps in curtains, statues in corridors
of incense and guilt, prayers and pain
of scuffed knees, thorny rose scratches
of windswept moors
of dandelion and burdock
of all things, bright and beautiful
of painted plastic caravelle, sausage, and chips
of salt and vinegar crisps
of windswept moors
of thunderbirds, captain scarlet, and rock snakes on mars
of trickling streams
of janet and john
of yetis and daleks, coal fired viewing
of windswept moors
of adventures climbing green wet walls, behind the shed
of walking by farms, hands held, one old, one young
of a big blue car with a bold white stripe
of biggles and (just) william
of windswept moors
of a (toy) cable car, exotic tales, faraway places
of bicycles and tricycles
of black and white
of library smells, pages (life) unfolding
of windswept moors (dark tales of what happened there)
of saying goodbye
of these,
i think, when remembering
my roots, and
the dreams, i had
poetry | 101 | rehab | roots
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andy townend 