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Week #45 of the famous photo challenge came up with Minimalism. At the beginning of the week, I was quite sure, that this would be not a big deal for me, as I really love minimalism. Something will cross my way... Easy...

Well to be honest, it turned out that the days have passed as quickly as the sand trickles through our hands. And so I found myself late Sunday evening after dinner, sitting at the table. In front of me a flashlight and a small kitchen aid that I bought in the big Swedish shop the other day.

When I found this little treasure (aka garlic press), I took it in my hands and turned it back and forth. I was immediately fascinated by the wonderful clear design and its beautiful mechanics. A decision was quickly made to take it with me, and in the very same moment it was clear to me that I must take a photograph of this beautiful piece of product design and engineering art 😎

Back at the table. Feeling a kind of pressure in the meantime, I started playing around with the flashlight. I placed the press here and there, tried different angles of the flashlight – backlight, illuminating from the front, the side. Finally I turned off all surrounding lights and used the flashlight to illuminate the sieve backlit and placed in its cylindrical holder. When I saw the first shots I felt that I was on track... Well on the track of abstract, but not on the track of minimalism 🤪

Anyway I had quite some fun with this first set and tried out different ideas. But after a short view at the clock I got a little nervous, I must admit. Struggling shortly I turned on the surrounding light again and tried out completely different views at a shorter focal length. My goal was to have this really, really cool mechanics to shine up as the center of the take.

And so I ended up with this shot that I tooted Sunday night – after the deadline to be strict – but who cares 😉

It's November again. The sun makes itself scarce through the day and leaves the stage to the fog which often rules the day and even the night. The other day, I followed the impulse, grabbed my gear, plugged in my earbuds and went for a late walk through the foggy night.

I had no clear destination and somehow just followed my inner compass. I had no lights on and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The gothic music I heard from my earbuds was a perfect support for this dark, foggy and somehow unreal night. When I walked down the small street, I reached a tree with a street lamp behind it. I was immediately caught by the light rays and sectors of light that built up perfectly through the fog, turning the leaves of the tree into perfect silhouettes.

So I set my tripod and did some shots of this quiet, dense scene – playing with aperture and time, while listening to the music.

I folded up my tripod, put it on my shoulder and continued my walk, still without any light other than that of a few street lamps and their dull reflections in the fog. I tried paths I knew from the day, but it turned out that they were too dark and didn't make for an interesting night shot.

Well, I turned around again and took the direct route across the meadows when I saw some street lights that made a nice picture from a distance. As I approached them to get the right angle for my prime lens, it wasn't as interesting as I thought it would be.

As I walked on I found myself in the middle of a rather mystical scene just a few minutes later. A backlit group of trees next to a shed caught my attention as they showed such wonderfully soft but distinct silhouettes. It's simply awesome how fascinating taking photographs can be on a foggy night.

I've posted both pictures as a goodnight wish to the Fedinauts out there in the wide Fediverse.

observing observing the senses thoughts emotions

see within without: intent question blame shame judgment guilt

observing observing the mind no thing to: conclude gain obtain claim remain choose loose divide hide

see within without: preparing searching learning yearning

observing observing observing observing awareness isness suchness consciousness pure essence

Infinity was the thing of the 44th week of the photo challenge. I thought of circles, the number eight, stars above me, the view through an industrial chimney or a large pipe, cemeteries, love, and so on. And it seemed to me like every time something came to my mind a toot was posted covering the association. So the challenge persisted, and I let my mind run wild 😁

And so it was that I spent Saturday afternoon playing with two mirrors and their infinite reflections 😎 I had the idea of creating something atmospheric, candles that form a line into infinity.

My setup was quite simple: I placed the two mirrors opposite each other, covered everything I didn't want to be seen, mounted the camera on the tripod, turned off the light and that was it. I also tried playing with focus stacking, but I wasn't really happy with the results. So next time I might go for a higher ISO and faster shutter speed. But that's what I love about photography – there are always plenty of possibilities and ideas to play with 😊

And voilà, here goes my result that I tooted on Sunday.

Maybe it's Thursday out there too, where things were normal. (From Tales from the Valley: Phantasmagory Shorts)

CW: blood, horror themes, mentions of violence

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Seven died on a Thursday.

I can just see the calendar from where I'm cowering under the desk, rows of little red x’s that lead to a big smiley-face. That's really what does it, a bright red smile like the blood on the curtains, the walls, the crevices between my fingers.

Thursday, Thursday It was always fucking Thursday.

Maybe it's Thursday out there too, where things were normal. That’s a morbid thought. Thursday at my empty desk in the dingy office park behind the gas station. Thursday in that apartment on the hill, the bathroom door busted off its hinges and a forest of grocery store plants dead on the windowsills. Briefly, I wonder if someone else lives in that apartment these days, or if the rest of the world went ahead and ended too. It's not like these are even my memories. It's not like this has anything at all to do with me.

So fine, whatever, it's Thursday, if thats supposed to mean anything, as if that matters, and there's a big red smiley face to mark the occasion. Seven probably knew what was coming then, of course she did. I feel a twinge of rage at that, bubbling up through the stupor. The audacity she had to draw that, knowing what was about to happen. The nerve.

And maybe it’s because it’s one of those cheap calendars the admins at my old job used to have, tacky and badly typeset, filled with pictures of kittens in fields posed in an array of tiny hats, a collection of miserable, blank kitten faces staring into the camera, maybe that’s what finally snaps me out of it.

Hang in there, she'd say with a smile that lit up the basement, watching them open me up on the table again. Yes, I'm sure she would think the whole thing was hilarious, if she could think about anything anymore.

God, how I hated her, truly.

My legs are stiff and angry when I pull myself up. I've been under the desk for god-knows-how long. Time was strewn about the floor in little fragments.

Who needs time anyhow? What has time ever done for anyone? I'm better off without it, I tell myself, pushing the unease back down under my sludgy layers of cognitive disonnance.

Seven is probably still splayed out on the dining room table. And it’s true. I flinch when I turn the corner, eyes dropping to the bloodstain painting the horrid, ugly carpet. The body looks happy, manically so. And you know, at least someone is. That counts for something.

Are you satisfied, Mother Seven? Have all your dreams come true? I'm a proper monster now, and Seven got a vacation in whatever hell things like her go to.

She shouldn't still be here. It makes no sense, given my limited understanding of whatever the hell this stupid nightmare is supposed to be, but it's the kind of thing she'd make special sure of. Just for me. Just so I know what I probably did.

No one has cleaned up, or bothered to close her eyes. Who would have? I'm the only one left now. My head is ringing. The only one left, the only one.

Apart from him.

Wherever he is. The 'real one,' the shit-heeler who stole my face, or signed the lease for it anyway. He's been gone for days now, decades, months, whatever. My head has never been so blissfully empty without him in there screwing around. Maybe my awful owner is dead in a ditch somewhere, clutching his horrible little hands to his horrible little head, pretending it’ll all go back to normal in the morning.

And bless our shared, malignant little heart, it just might.

Hilarious. I could scream. I could cry, if I had anything inside of me to wet the tears with.

At some point, I wander into the kitchen and make a cup of tea. I don't like tea, but it's better than staring at the blood on the curtains, the windows, the ugly blue cabinets. The body in the dining room... My shirt is cemented to my skin, tugging my armpit hair when I reach for a mug. There’s blood in my armpits and I don't even like tea.

The kettle is whistling harmony with my head. A major third, my brain supplies helplessly. Ding dong, Beethoven’s 5th. I consider throwing it through the kitchen window. That's what a proper monster would do, I think, and I'm a proper monster now. A terrible beast that ruins the carpet and lurks around snarling at calendars. I set the kettle gently back on the stove.

When I wander back into the dining room, the body is still on the table. Just for me. Just so I know what I probably did. For godsake, she didn't even really exist, why the hell is she still here for?

Looking at her is making my eyes burn, so I go back to contemplating the horrid, ugly carpet again. Red splatters on lime green swirls. The red is my fault of course, but who the hell even built this house, unleashed their vision of midcentury misery on this unsuspecting pile of coal baron showboating.

I'm losing the the thread, grasping at anything to distract me from the reality of being well and truly alone. The smell of blood and earl grey is making me sick, so I tip the mug out and watch my tea bleed into the mess around it. It doesn't matter what I do at this point, not that it ever did. The carpet is already ruined.

I'm making a noise like a giggle. It's not funny, so I must be crying. I don't even like tea and it doesn't matter even if I did because the tea isn't real. The house, the horrors, the body on the table. The fake wind-up monster clutching his fake mug of fake tea with fake shaking fingers.

God, how I understand the fear in their eyes now. It isn't real, I yelled, watching them claw their arms with that horrible look on their faces. It isn't real, it isn't real. God, how I killed them all with three ugly words and I wasn't even enough of a person to die with them. Black trails of nothing slip down my face.

At some point, I go back to the office to wait for time to pass again, for lack of anything better to do. It doesn't. It sits in pieces on the floor like an angry toddler, staring at me in silent accusation. The creak in the office chair agrees and I make a note to burn it later, along with the papers flung across the desk and the books lining the shelves behind me. Endless notes on the town, the victims, the fake plastic monsters like me. Rules, lessons, faith, belief. Books, trinkets, junk, mess. Paper monsters piled in great heaps against the doors and windows, suffocating ourselves with gleeful malice.

Yes, there will be a lot of things to burn later, I think, idly picking flecks of gore from my nails. The calendar is boring a hole through my head from the wall, but I'm going to burn it later with the rest of the house and maybe then the ringing in my ears will stop.

I wonder how well fiction burns, if the last of it will drift to the sky in a column of smoke or if it's carved itself into the hills, waiting to leak back out when no one's looking.

I press my dirty fingers to my face. I'm too tired to go looking for answers today.

—–+ #Horror #ShortStory #Writing #Fiction

Birth, asthma attacking my soul borne blue,learning as I grew, I walked and I babbled, cute as any Hair was so curly, mum thought the world.

I soon learnt that other kids would be quite cruel, Not understanding me like nothing else i knew Dumbass and idiot moronic labels would be thrown

Something im working on, my life story background about my nuerodeverity in poetry form.

Not sure it does the issue justice...

Even the teachers thought Little, Till school did I move, learnt to run.

Other labels would then be me, Dyslexia and dyspraxia… More I learnt, harder the world seemed to be Thinking differently, not quite the same as all else

I got the help for that, didn't stop, self doubt and self loathing, I became depressed becamem toxic.

Fell into drug use, a bit of that, bit of this My friends wherent great, often trying to lead off the straight and narrow course, Users loosers, nafarious folk but, where still mates, only one i ever knew.

Ended up hearing voices, reality was obviously a sham, distorted A psychic war had began, delusional Was placed with more labels then I could count

Spent a long time stewing in purgatory With my misgivings, lost Not quite with the world, not part of society. No faith,no hope, no chances

Only recently light was shun in the darkness Rays of hope broke through. Cut loose old friends, made new Found a passion for art, started becoming Alive,

Sought help, admitting faults ,got the support I needed Therapy meds, new friends, a place to belong, I even Eent back to mass. I found peace and solace, With the father's homilies.

Finally I feel more whole, still with issues but more able. knowing now with some self worth,

I'm loved.

At least not longer in such a dark place.

Started posting to allpoetry.com too username psychicferret84.

Decided to write a poem for a painting ive got going on. Doing a picture of Christ atm, a portrait. Think ill put this poem ive just written as a warm up to go with it. maybe glue it to the back of the canvas or to go along with any online post

Prayer of the fallen Subtle god, who listens, in the cool wind I sense your presence.

almighty holy spirit, the flame who guides. More than a feeling, less then a voice. I hear you whisper, closer than consciousness. Burning into my soul.

Rituals and genuflection, scent of the church, the frankincense, a memory of old. A part of human dogma, something to please us, fallen.

We are all sinners just trying, following an example of the sinless, the blameless one. Endlessly trying to never forget.

His kindness, his openness, He loves us all, for that I'm truly thankful.

Do need to write poetry more often. I've also been reading some poetry by Oscar Wild recently, was totally surprised at how religious inspired it was, he might not of been accepted in his time due to being gay or bisexual but he is a true Christian.

The photo challenge week #42's motto was heimlich (means secretly). My first thoughts were about scenes of doing something secretly. But I discarded that first and quick association, as it was just too boring.

On Thursday that week we had a full moon and I saw it in its full beauty when I came back from a short walk. So I set up my tripod and my camera and took a few photos.

Friday I thought – well this could do, as the moon somehow secretly raised behind the tree... But as I was still not really satisfied, my internal fantasy unit™ kept on working in the background. Leading to browsing the phone book and looking for someone with the name Heimlich...

Well, I found him in the big city. Mr. Heimlich. I rang the doorbell and he opened. After introducing myself, I explained the photo challenge to him and what some really nice photographers are practicing by this challenge. I asked him, if I could take a photo of the nameplate on his letterbox. And so he agreed. I also offered him to take a photo of himself – if that would be fine for him, but he felt uncomfortable with that idea. No problem, as I was really happy to take a photo of the nameplate. So we said good-bye as I needed to get my camera from the car and he went back into his house, closing the door.

Back from the car with my gear, he was there again, standing in the opened door – he smiled and said, “I'll make you an offer, come in and look at this frame”. I was completely overwhelmed as he showed me the drawing of the family coat of arms that I was allowed to photograph. I noticed the written year 1427 and learned from him that the name comes from Silesia and that the coat of arms can also be seen in a museum at Nuremberg.

When I finally left, I thanked him again. “Maybe that's better than the letterbox”, he said with a smile and a gleam in his eye.

During the last poetry session was asked to write a summery about any story and if time try to write a poem from the eye of a charecter, I've choose little redcap as red riding hood had been featuring in my days recently.

Little red cap by brothers grim is the original story of red riding hood

Her grandmother lays in her cottage il and the mother of Little redcap gives her daughter an errand. To go to her grandmother's cabbin with cake and wine but be carefull Not to wonder of the path

On her way Little redcap meets a wlfm unafraid She gets tricked of the path, while away the wolf hurries to the grandma's cabin, gobbles up the grandma and puts on her clothes and lays in bed, waiting

Littlered cap wakes the wolf in grandma's garb and questions why her ears are so large, why his eyes are so large and why her mouth is so large

The wolf jumps to swallow Little redcap and then falls asleep in grandmother's bed

A huntsman hears the wolf snore, checks into grandma's rabbit, sees the wolf and decides it safer not to shoot but cuts open the wolf wide with scissors saving the grandma and Little red cap

He then fills the woof with stones while later dies,

On another occasion another wolf try to eat redcap but her grandmother tempts the wolf with sausages and from his perch on top of the cabin, the small enticing him then falls and drowns in hot water from where the sausages where boiling

Grandma gave me once,a velvet red cap It glistened in the evening sun

On my way In my red cap, being sent With leftover baked cake, with wine To my favourite grandma whose poorly

But when trapsing along, I come upon a grey mainedwolf Unafraid I greet him, hello wolf and he me

He tells me I should take a fine walk of the path To breath and enjoy the fine day while it last So I go gather flower and posey? To go with my grandma's cake and red wine

Little I knew what a trick, the wolf had Played in mine

He was set to gobble me and my grandma, to dine

But the fool met his match, when the huntsman Set about, to cut the wolf and free Me and grandmother

Then another later tried what the first wolf failed In time. Snuck on the roof to be tempted by sausages scent Slipt and fell straight into a vail of water and drowned.

now streaming until 10am:

※ silent views of nature ※ kitchen organization ※ reading from This Arab Is Queer: next up, Zeyn Joukhadar's essay Catching The Light: Reclaiming Opera As A Trans Arab ※ abstract paintings ※ cough drop comparison ※ me wrestling with the concepts of Right and Wrong

https://www.twitch.tv/humanissome

Never, ever read comments on articles about artists' (nonexistent) income.

An artist not getting supported by income from art seems to be “a parasite” – but, say, athletes should get all possible support from society.

“If they don't live off of competing, it's just a hobby and hobbies shouldn't be paid for by the state!” said no politician about sports, ever.

“If you/your kind of sports doesn't interest the paying public enough, switch to somwthing they're interested in or get a real job.” Not seen.

“Only a tiny fraction of athletes ever support themselves fully on sports, so better not encourage kids into it or spend on training 'em.”

“Those with TRUE talent in what people will pay to see for, will find their way to the top anyway. No need for athlete's grants.”

“What good is a sporting event anyway? You simply go and see it somewhere and can't even take the experience home as is.”

#RandomThoughts

One of the most common reasons I've seen given for supporting #populists is “they speak their mind not bound by 'political correctness'”.

In practice this means “not caring if they hurt somebody's feelings – or downright lie, about a person or a huge group of them”.

Of course, these same folks cry persecution upon any and all disagreeing opinion, claiming their freedom of speech violated.

I've worked with kids and saw that pattern in some of the littlest ones. Not literally the freedom of speech line, but the general idea.

And, to put it frankly, I'd never want to see adults still in that “I'm the center of the universe and the only one that feels things” stage of development in position of power, but – sadly – too many are. Put to place by people enchanted by that “speaking their mind”...

So, unless you're willing to be governed by people who act like the littlest kids, demand adult behaviour in those you vote for.

Demandning true adult level of understanding with all the shades of gray & levels of not knowing enough to form a set, informed opinion would be much better, but seems a tad too much to ask in this day & age. I can hope, though.

#RandomThoughts

Every now and then I get a feeling like I really need a few copies of me to get things done, with all the brain buzzing going on. Not to mention all the outside pressure that tends to always be around. The work I do in order to be able to afford to do art, the clubs I belong to and in which I seem failing to be just a member and whatnot.

What would really happen, though, is that all of the mes would be busily doing one thing, with all the other stuff still waiting to be done. Yeah #ActuallyAutistic special interests for the win.

But, when projects now in various stages of realization WOULD be finally finished by the mes, I'd go dancing with myself (oh-oh-o-oh). And to go with the dancing we'd do some boozing and get drunken ideas about a bit more intimate versions of dancing with myself. Oh boyoyos.

By the way – would only the original me be married, or all of us? If all, would it actually count as polygamy when there wouldn't be multiple persons, just copies of one person?

Anyway, how long would the one I/we are married to actually stick around with multiple mes running around? One me can be a bit much, I reckon…

But… to get things done, a few copies of me might be nice.

#RandomThoughts

Afternoons like this I sit in the waiting room of my own life. Listening to on-hold music gazing at the empty hallways.

Behind my eyes worlds wander and the clouds gather, dissipate.

#Poetry #SmallPoems

Do You Believe in Good & Bad?



I sorta don’t.

“Do you believe in Right & Wrong?” In the super long mega song American Pie by Don McLean there is a portion that begins, “Do you believe in rock & roll…” It’s one of the many snips of music lodged in my permanent memory that my mind transforms into one of my humanism hymns.

“Do you believe in Right & Wrong?” is an undying conundrum for me.

If I believe in Right and Wrong then pain is wrong. Accomplishment is right. Busyness & business are right. Indolence, a word that means “not hurting” in its derivation, is wrong, because it has come to mean lazy. Why is lazy wrong? Lying down, lazing about, is deemed immoral. It's no wonder that US Americans burn out and have to be reminded to rest.

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On the next stream 7-10 a.m. on 10-17 maybe I'll explore this subject.

So I've started a poetry group

I thought I would document my journey going from a dyslexic, non-poet to a poet wannabe.

We are following the BBC maestro course poetry by Carol Duffy, unsure of which i would recommend without also having a teacher. It is informative but no set exercises which might be limiting

OK so polishing up a few poems that i started during the 5 minute allotted time

To tell the truth

tell all the truth let it wash aside

all the lost time, wasted agonies

tell the truth, own all the past

heal from brokenness and lies

Heal all the bygone times woes

move on and let it all go, heal

start renewed become all which

once was dreamed, finally

instead of wasting away in a haze.

Climate change

climate change a monstrosity wrought

denied truths by some crackpots alts

climate change Armageddons time has come

those that agree get called force

but will humanity survive if we unite nought.

such tumultuous times have now become,

For the homework we where set an assignment to choose one an art peice and write a poem from the charactors voice, i choose to write as lucifer from illustrations of paradise lost.

Lucifer my pride and fall

How I spite the limitation of thy god

rise up I tried but now cast off

fallen ever fallen into the depths

in sulphuric fumes now cast out from heaven's gate

Now I shall tempt every human,

in all manner of sort

Turn them from God's grace

And make thy kingdom of my own

they shall only worship ME,

not thy not God above

blight and spite

I shall set Him in my sight

that heavenly thrones shall be mine.

Wonderous now am I now twisted in the depths

vanity ha but pride I laugh

I grow stronger and stronger each millennium pass

madden those cast from Eden's grasp,

turn them into figureless forms,

Make them my minions shades,

A horror full blight

A tempest has he wrought,

my army shall rise and fought

over throw choirs and dominions,

of angels with my demonic horde

I shall be the one in charge,

they will all worship me and only me