Star Trails in Australia
Many photographers like to experiment with long exposure photography techniques, but an Australian Lincoln Harrison gives a new definition to the word “long”. The 37-year-old Victorian showcases a portfolio of mesmerizing long exposure star trail photography, with some of his photo shoots taking up to 15 hours. The photos are made at his personal favorite spot over Lake Eppalock, in the Australian outback.
The star swirls are the result of the rotation of the Earth, and makes you think you’re witnessing the stars traveling across the sky. “With no buildings for miles, the sky is so clear and it’s amazing to be able to capture the beauty of the night’s sky on camera,” says Lincoln.
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I don’t know how many of you were in a TC around this time last year (maybe mid July). I told you all it doesn’t matter if you made $20 or $100 or $500 today, you did it. You should be proud of yourself because you did something a lot of girls can’t do. A lot of girls can’t sugar, but you did. You…
I’m sorry I haven’t been posting. It’s finals week. And moving week. And lose your mind week. *sigh* One more final and then I’m out of school! On the bright side, in two weeks, I’ll be in Scotland.
My mistrust is not, as one might expect, primarily a result of the violent acts done on my body, nor the vicious humiliations done to my dignity. It is, instead, born of the multitude of mundane betrayals that mark my every relationship with a man—the casual rape joke, the use of a female slur, the careless demonization of the feminine in everyday conversation, the accusations of overreaction, the eyerolling and exasperated sighs in response to polite requests to please not use misogynist epithets in my presence or to please use non-gendered language (“humankind”).
There are the jokes about women, about wives, about mothers, about raising daughters, about female bosses. They are told in my presence by men who are meant to care about me, just to get a rise out of me, as though I am meant to find funny a reminder of my second-class status. I am meant to ignore that this is a bullying tactic, that the men telling these jokes derive their amusement specifically from knowing they upset me, piss me off, hurt me. They tell them and I can laugh, and they can thus feel superior, or I can not laugh, and they can thus feel superior. Heads they win, tails I lose. I am used as a prop in an ongoing game of patriarchal posturing, and then I am meant to believe it is true when some of the men who enjoy this sport, in which I am their pawn, tell me, “I love you.” I love you, my daughter. I love you, my niece. I love you, my friend. I am meant to trust these words.
There are the occasions that men—intellectual men, clever men, engaged men—insist on playing devil’s advocate, desirous of a debate on some aspect of feminist theory or reproductive rights or some other subject generally filed under the heading: Women’s Issues. These intellectual, clever, engaged men want to endlessly probe my argument for weaknesses, want to wrestle over details, want to argue just for fun—and they wonder, these intellectual, clever, engaged men, why my voice keeps raising and why my face is flushed and why, after an hour of fighting my corner, hot tears burn the corners of my eyes. Why do you have to take this stuff so personally? ask the intellectual, clever, and engaged men, who have never considered that the content of the abstract exercise that’s so much fun for them is the stuff of my life.
you can complain all you want on the internet and reblog all these little quotes about society and school blah blah or you can stop bitchin and go out in the real world and fuck it up and mentally murder people who try to belittle your intelligence while teaching yourself how to survive while climbing your way to the top