Jan 10
Lone Tree
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Lone Tree
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Philip Braham (British, 1959), Currochs Field, Winter, 2019. Oil on linen, 97 x 130 cm.
10-29-24 | RIP braizh-29. misterlemonztenth.tumblr.com/archive
I’ve finally figured out my type and it’s 🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁forehead lines
New Garden Plot
Hello everyone, I am new to the blog and this is my first post.
I am working on making a new garden plot. This one is about 50′ by 25′. I used a Brinly cultivator to break the soil, its mostly clay. The soil is not too hard since it rained a few days ago. The black bag on top of the cultivator (2nd picture) is a 50 pound weight so it can dig deeper.
After a few passes with the cultivator, I used a Brinly plow to make furrows. Now, there are different methods I am using for planting (raised beds, no till, straw mulch, seasonal rain, drip irrigation, etc). The reason I made furrows it’s because this garden is on a slope. I am not sure you can tell but opposite to the tractor I made a swale a few months ago in order to stop erosion. I also planted orange trees on the edge of the swale as well.
It will be raining this week so I hope to get out and plant as soon as it stops raining. The plan is to plant corn, beans and squash, maybe some onions on the edges to “try” to deter gophers (which is another post in its entirety). I will follow up in a couple of weeks and show you any progress I’ve made. If you have any comments, advice, constructive criticism, they are all welcome. Thanks!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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She danced in the Snow.
She danced in the snow. They say she came one day in the cold of Winter, came silently among the fields and furrows. Never a word crossed her lips, and none knew if she could not speak...or if she was silent by choice. No clothes wore she, but walked uncaring through the bitter cold, like one who could not even feel the bite of the wind or the chill of the ice beneath her feet. Her hair was fire, crackling and flickering, bringing warmth and light to the world. When she reached her destination, an empty meadow long forgotten, she began to dance. Graceful was she that day, her body like the flickering flames of her hair, and the joy in her face was unspeakably great. A few folk saw her that day, watched as she twirled and spun across the white of the snow and ice, transfixed by her beauty, grace, and skill. Those folk would never forget what they saw, never forget her dance and her joy, not even should eternity come and go would they forget. Though none were there to play, music drifted from the Winter world around her, following her as she moved. When her dance ended, she vanished, like a candle flame blown out. All that she had was spent for that brief moment, that vibrant dance. None know her story, not from whence she had come, nor where she vanished to when her dance had ended. But the memory burns deep within the hearts of all who witnessed her that day. The day she came to that white meadow in the Deep Woods, the day that She danced in the snow.
I'm so fucking tired right now But all I'm allowed is to plough All night through the field I may never yield It's still less furrowed than my brow
I continue to be enthralled when old plow furrows become visible decades later. And all hints at the land's past uses that peek through the forest - it would be so easy to believe that the forest has always been there, just like it is today.
I guess the lower areas are slightly protected from the sun, so the tops melt first.