Bashed but not Bashful . . .

Just dropping in here to see if I still remember how to upload a photo on a blog. That is one aspect of blogland that pushed me toward the open arms of Ms Fessebook, uploading and formating photos here is simply tedious... but hey, no place is perfect. Still, some things get old after a while, and leave you feeling kind of rusty, worn down, even a bit bashed in. But in this old radiator grill's case, still beautiful, after all those years. Thanks to anyone who may still be stopping by here. And if you are on Facebook, do stop by Owen Phillips Photography France ...
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.

Rusty Old Cars . . .

.
.
.
What is it about rusty old cars that appeals so strongly to many of us ? Is it a nostalgia thing ? Romantic echos of a bygone age ? Is it the unforgettable memories for those who lost their virginity in the back seats of behemoths like these ? Old cars, like old people, reach a point where they just aren't ever going to go any further. Not a mile more. Too many parts have failed. Rust too far gone to ever be cured by a quick treatment of rust remover and a fresh coat of paint to gloss things over. The end of the road. The end, period. And yet, their abandoned bodies call to us still, from the side yards of dilapidated old garages on backwater roads. Still something profoundly beautiful in their fading carcasses.
.
Saw these aging beauties on a trip to Pennsylvania a couple of years ago. On automobile license plates in that state they used to print a slogan on the edges of the plates that said, in poor grammar, "You've got a friend in Pennsylvania". When I found these old darlings not far from the Susquehanna River, I couldn't have agreed with them more.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Of Crystal Balls and Faded Fake Flowers . . .

.
.
.
Another cry in the wilderness . . . journeying out into endless space . . .
.
As reflections go this weekend, it's not much of a reflection in this crystal ball, a bit of sky with horizon, a double reflection actually, from the front outer surface, and from the back inner surface, the photographer doubled in the middle, the same elbow pointing up and down.
.
A crystal ball on a gravestone, an overturned candle holder.
Who can say what the future holds ?
What wavering flame will light the ever after ?
.
Where do the fake flowers come from that people put on graves ?
How on earth are they made ?
No machine could do this painstaking work so perfectly
I can't help but wonder if there are kids in sweat shops
Somewhere sewing these bits of synthetic fabric together,
Forming the brittle blooms, glued on plastic stalks,
And finally placed on tombstones  ?
Looking surprisingly like real flowers
Not wilting quite so fast as the natural
Yet fading nevertheless
Over the passing years
.
What kind of a world do we live in
Where massive amounts of industrial and human energy
Are expended churning out fake plastic flowers ?
I find myself asking the question more and more often these days :
What if we were wrong ?
What if we were wrong about nearly everything ?
What if there was another way to live ?
A way to live with no plastics strangling our oceans,
No petroleum causing wars, no guns, no money,
No cars, no television, no movies,
No computers to send thoughts like this around the world,
No nuclear anything, no jets screaming across the skies,
No greed, no hate, no tribes bashing each others brains out,
No religions causing only divisions,
While the human race knows only endless multiplication
Subtracting intelligence from the idiocy of infinite addition
A way to live with none of this madness we wallow in today
What if there were another way ?
What if we were wrong ?
What if we were just going through the motions
Because someone told us when we were little
That this was how it had to be ?
What if we were wrong ?
.
.
.
(Perhaps a subconscious tribute, it occurred to me later, to "Imagine" from Mr Lennon ? Nothing new under the sun . . .)
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Stone Memories . . .

.
.
.
Well, I suppose I really did have my head in the clouds. Someone broke the chain fairly early on, and the hoped for millions of page hits did not materialize. Sigh. :-)
.
Back to the drawing board. Or more precisely, back to the light table, and the editing of photographs taken over the years. Here are a few more from Florence, Italy, in the San Miniato al Monte Cemetery. Shared with you with all my heart.
.
Memories in stone
Darkened by soot
Locked in rust
An angel's love
An infant's trust
Broken dreams
A fading photograph
An eternal smile
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

A Visit to Ventimiglia . . .

.
.
.
Back in May when we were really starting to get to the nitty gritty planning phase for the upcoming trip to Italy in June (which just ended, much to my regret), over on Catherine's blog, Small Fish In the Big Taco, she put up a post about the old town of Ventimiglia, located just across the border from France in Italy on the Riviera coast, which you can see here. Her report gave me a strong desire to follow in her footsteps and take a look around, and it happened to work out perfectly that as we left Genoa and were heading across to Toulon in France, we just had time for a short stop in Ventimiglia. The following photos were the inevitable result.
.
I would highly recommend a visit to Ventimiglia if you are ever down that way, just be sure to wear a pair of sturdy walking shoes, as it is a steep climb from center of town at sea-level up to the top of the old quarter.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

Works of Art In the Strangest Places . . .

.
.
.
As much as I love to wander in museums and wonder while pondering the profuse profundities of fine paintings and sculptures from over the centuries, I also love to wander out of doors and let chance play her mysterious role in revealing minor marvels and natural art, which spring into view unbidden and unexpected in surprising places. One just has to tune in to their frequency, and oscillate with them for a while. Here are just a few examples seen recently while out walking hither and thither. Hunting and gathering. Watching how time and weather transform most anything, from what it was, into something entirely other.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.