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Zeitpunkt              Nutzer    Delta   Tröts        TNR     Titel                     Version  maxTL
Sa 06.07.2024 00:00:00   183.041      +9    5.883.680    32,1 Mastodon                  4.2.10     500
Fr 05.07.2024 00:00:07   183.032      +3    5.876.679    32,1 Mastodon                  4.2.10     500
Do 04.07.2024 00:00:37   183.029      +8    5.870.017    32,1 Mastodon                  4.2.9      500
Mi 03.07.2024 00:00:07   183.021       0    5.863.973    32,0 Mastodon                  4.2.9      500
Di 02.07.2024 00:03:52   183.021      +6    5.857.080    32,0 Mastodon                  4.2.9      500
Mo 01.07.2024 00:00:30   183.015      -3    5.874.502    32,1 Mastodon                  4.2.9      500
So 30.06.2024 00:00:07   183.018      +8    5.869.053    32,1 Mastodon                  4.2.9      500
Sa 29.06.2024 00:03:02   183.010     +10    5.863.998    32,0 Mastodon                  4.2.9      500
Fr 28.06.2024 00:04:36   183.000      +7    5.857.209    32,0 Mastodon                  4.2.9      500
Do 27.06.2024 00:00:41   182.993       0    5.853.212    32,0 Mastodon                  4.2.9      500

Sa 06.07.2024 15:12

@RickiTarr Time for another ArtsFest?

Art by Chris Dudley The artist is still, still in breath Emptying, filling, gliding past death A blank canvas, an uninked page An uncarved block knotless and blank The tools are assembled, chisel or brush The desk just right, coffee in mug The artist submerged, the moment, the breath Releasing all that distracts from just this And then the motion, lift of the arm Brush at the pallet mixing a shade Pen starts to scribble these words along Mallot strikes chisel, the start, that cut I've been to forges, the anvil aringing Bellows all blasting, The metal bright glowing I feel the strike in the bones of my neck The ring and the power, the hiss of the quench The smith's too practiced to take that moment Working the bellows, irons in fire The smith's not an artist, a craftsman is he But I think, I desire, he pauses like me

Art by Chris Dudley The artist is still, still in breath Emptying, filling, gliding past death A blank canvas, an uninked page An uncarved block knotless and blank The tools are assembled, chisel or brush The desk just right, coffee in mug The artist submerged, the moment, the breath Releasing all that distracts from just this And then the motion, lift of the arm Brush at the pallet mixing a shade Pen starts to scribble these words along Mallot strikes chisel, the start, that cut I've been to forges, the anvil aringing Bellows all blasting, The metal bright glowing I feel the strike in the bones of my neck The ring and the power, the hiss of the quench The smith's too practiced to take that moment Working the bellows, irons in fire The smith's not an artist, a craftsman is he But I think, I desire, he pauses like me

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