William Stanley Moore according to his official police record was an “opium dealer/ Operates with large quantities of faked opium and cocaine./ A wharf labourer; associates with water front thieves and drug traders.” Mugshot by New South Wales Police Department (1925) Source: Historic Houses TrustMore
Robert Burns. Poet. Scottish. "Tam O'Shanter'. 1790 [caption id="attachment_171366" align="aligncenter" width="719"] Tam O'Shanter and ice-skating on Lake Menteith in Stirling. Copyright Content Catnip 2015[/caption]
When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet; As market days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate, While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' getting fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
It is the time when crimson stars Weary of heaven’s cold delight, And take, like petals from a rose, Their soft and hesitating flight Upon the cool wings of the air Across the purple night.
It is the time when silver sails Go drifting down the violet sea, And every poppy’s crimson mouth Kisses to sleep a lovesick bee; The fireweed waves her rosy plumes On pasture, hill and lea.
It is the time to dream—and feel The lanquid rocking of a boat, The pushing ripple round the keel Where cool, deep-hearted lilies float, And hear thro’ wild syringas steal Some songster’s drowsy note.
It is the time, at eve, to lie And in a hammock faintly sway, To watch the golds and crimsons die Across the blue stretch of the bay; To hear the sweet dusk tiptoe by In the footsteps of the day.
Ella Rhoads Higginson, American 1862 - 1940[caption id="attachment_171740" align="aligncenter" width="1080"] The Gloaming Part 3. Wrocław, Poland Copyright Content Catnip 2016[/caption]
[caption id="attachment_168051" align="aligncenter" width="1080"] Portree Harbour, Isle of Skye Scotland. Copyright Content Catnip 2010[/caption]
The sky puts on the darkening blue coat held for it by a row of ancient trees; you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight, one journeying to heaven, one that falls;
and leave you, not at home in either one, not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses, not calling to eternity with the passion of what becomes a star each night, and rises;
and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel) your life, with its immensity and fear, so that, now bounded, now immeasurable, it is alternately stone in you and star.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Poet, austria. 1875-1926.
When I was living in Berlin I often went past Spree river-side bars where people gathered and drunk large flagons of beer, ate bokwurst and listened to 70’s funk music out of tinny speakers. The vibe was relaxing, ethereal and floaty. The beer and the sun certainly added to this vibe. Peering down at people […]More