Wood Flooring Comparison

wood flooring comparison
    wood flooring
  • Wood flooring is any product manufactured from timber that is designed for use as flooring, either structural or aesthetic. Bamboo flooring is often considered a wood floor, although it is made from a grass (bamboo) rather than a timber.
  • Most often made from hardwoods like maple, pecan, beech, birch or oak.
  • Most wood flooring is made of hardwoods, such as oak, maple, pecan, beech and birch. There is solid wood flooring and laminated, which combines wood layered in different directions for strength and to inhibit warping.
  • The act or instance of comparing
  • The quality of being similar or equivalent
  • An analogy
  • qualities that are comparable; "no comparison between the two books"; "beyond compare"
  • the act of examining resemblances; "they made a comparison of noise levels"; "the fractions selected for comparison must require pupils to consider both numerator and denominator"
  • relation based on similarities and differences

13/52 - me and my shadow
13/52 - me and my shadow
let all the others fight and fuss whatever happens, we've got us I've had this sitting half processed on my desktop for close to four months... I think that's about when I started losing my Flickr enthusiasm and stopped backtracking my 52 weeks project. Tonight, I'm up way later than I should be, so I decided to take a second look at this photo and figure out what was missing. I'm not one for rounded corners but the edges of this were too sharp considering the crop, so I went for it. Finally, it's complete. Actually this photo is a bit of a cheat. It was supposedly taken on Sunday, April 4th, around 10 PM - according to the data - but that's a lie. My DSLR was delivered bright and early on Monday morning - April 5th, 2010. Even though I was born in Europe, I apparently fail at setting the time on a 24 hour format device. For the first week or so, all my photos were being documented 12 hours earlier than they were being shot. But, I figure that doesn't matter to me since this is just going into my personal set. Really, what's half a day? Of the 67 pictures I took after unpacking my brand new toy (an early birthday present, and an upgrade long overdue) and before going to class, this one is an easy favorite. We were riding the elevator down to the lobby for our walk and Hike was doing his usual scavenging. I was shooting everything as I tried to figure out how to work the camera. Considering this was probably almost fully on auto settings, it's pretty good. I like that I not only caught a double shadow cast from the overhead lights, but upon looking it over later - when I was narrowing down a pick - I really appreciate how color coordinated it all is. I'm into colors. Not just colors, but shades of colors. As a natural kind of girl, I've always liked earthy tones. The building I live in is designed wonderfully, from the tiles on the ground floors to the wood panels on the lobby and elevator walls, to the gloomy blue paint of the residential hallways. My kind of mood set. Surprisingly, I got myself a dog to match my living quarters. It was subconscious, of course, but I'll admit - I fully leapt at the chance of owning my dog based on a photo. I didn't meet him blindly and fall in love with a personality; I sent an e-mail, I got a reply with a picture attached, and I said yes! I had no idea what he was like as an individual (but of course I was fully prepared to work with a husky personality, since that was what I had been looking for.) I went by first impressions, and they had to be purely cosmetic. It's something I actively deter people from doing (don't adopt/buy a dog based on appearances!) but I did it. Luckily, the whole package came together for me... Early on, I would try to describe Hike's coat pattern to people, and I was always at a loss for words. He's a merle, surely, but in parts he's slightly ticked and almost brindled. For a long time I doubted his aussie parentage because he wasn't a traditional blue or red - his fur was brown and beige and brass and bronze... and gray and black and white and cream. He's peachy in the sun and dusty in the dark. His skin is a piggish pink with splotches. He's almost beyond categorization. And as much as he was an impulse, I'm glad I listened to my gut. One of the reasons I gave him the name Haiku lies in the definition of the word. Three fragments I particularly like are: "typically presents an intense emotion or vivid image of nature, which, traditionally, is designed to lead to a spiritual insight" "concerned with nature or the human experience / usually juxtaposing a pair of images; at its best, it fosters a resonance which deepens over time" "Haiku combines form, content, and language in a meaningful, yet compact form" - hmm, sound like anyone we know? I used to call my old dog "my golden shadow" - because he was a golden retriever and his name was actually Shadow (thanks, Homeward Bound!) But looking back at the kind of relationship I had with him, and seeing the connection I have with Hike now - it's a difficult comparison. There's a lot of variables of course: I was young then (9 when we got Shadow), he was a family dog, and being a retriever - he loved everyone. Haiku is mine, from start to finish. I was 21 when I chose to get him, and I've been in a position to raise him and provide for him. He's not a dog for everyone, and while he's not clingy and neurotic about being around me all the time, I, alone, am his person. Like the lyrics above said, whatever happens, we've got us... No more stalling. Next old photo I add to this set will be from my trusty little Olympus. I'm excited about sifting through that era!
Text in the photo: just knocked on the door. The sound, my knuckles felt agains the staunch oak, slinked slightly down the hallway nearly disappearing into the carpet. Did anyone hear that? Could anyone hear that? It was weak and I, by extension and in comparison, as well. I could only think that this was hardly a proper knock for a first impression and coinciding with my thought to buck up and try again the sound of metal molesting metal dazzled my ears. Tumblers clicking, the door resentfully shoved aside to reveal a short man - jarringly short - light faintly by the light of a television recessed into the otherwise pitch on the otherside of the door. The light flickered and teased. I could discern only gross detail in his face before the light would dance away leaving me unfulfilled, wanting. Vaguely now - he looked wisened and crooked with age, creased as if a family bible had become human and walked out of the house before all the leaves had withered to dust, nearly to dust. I felt older just gazing at the man. His shirt, seemingly grey in the dim, held stains like badges to its age. Mustard. Sweat. All sour things either by nature or slowly turned such by will and time. It, the shirt, hung forlornly from his shoulders and out-lined his hunched shoulders, exaggerating his horrid posture, until catching taut on a spherical belly Buddha would envy. His pants, linen, were worn but unstained apparently saved so by the shelving contained, barely, by the shirt above; threadbare at the knee, I could see flaked skin mottled by the dancing TV lights. He sickened me. I wish to talk, sir, I said as hushedly as my knock became against the door. He had to hear me, he had to hear my heart racing, if he heard that knock. He stepped aside and nigh imperceptibly nodded his head sideways into the darkness. I stepped in and he shut the door silently behind me. He locked the door; a monstrosity, the lock to be made of steel and granite with a single, large key that he turned. That grinding sound, far amplified on this side of the oak, surprises me. How thick is that door and how could this wrinkle of a man so easily turn it? Were I to dwell on it, perhaps I'd be rightfully scared, but I hadn't the time as he turns and walks towards the light. Lest I be swallowed alone in the entry way, I follow the man into his living room. The darkness has a way of clinging to the surfaces preventing me from perceiving but the vaguest shapes. Books. Paintings. Shelves. The odd assortment of knicknacks likely older than dirt, as old as he. The TV illuminates a plain wooden chair that appears as if to have grown directly out of the wood floor upon which it rests. It bends slightly forward in the legs and one arm leans gingerly outward from its moorings toward me. It looks to be melting into the floor, pulled ever downward by the shadows that pool below it It has no cushion to speak of, only the stain worn light where he rests his haunches and elbows when he sits. He gently lowers himself into it and both he and the chair wince and moan with mutual disdain and reconciliation. He mutes the set with a remote he produces from his pocket and, as quickly, returns it. He watches me. I grow cold now that I could see him clearly in the twisted television illumination. His brow sets severely over dark eyes rimmed with red. His cheeks are deep with scars, veiny and pink with malformed healing tissue. His lip is cleft at a severe angle which forces his lips into a derisive sneer. The teeth visible through his menace are sickly, chipped and threaten to butcher anything brought near them. His chin juts out and is covered with jagged, mottled hair which continues down his withered neck and, thankfully, disappears into the stained, perhaps white a decade ago, shirt. Stupor. A vein in his forehead twitches. My heart stops for a second and I think I would be pleased to die rather than speak and, perhaps, hear this grizzled husk of a human chortle anything near me. It would burn like fire. I reach into my pocket to retrieve my journal and peruse my notes, to buy time that is otherwise inching me slower and slower towards escaping this terror. I can't read my writing in the darkness and turn towards the television for help. His eyes follow and I just they wouldn't. I take a single deep breath and urge my heart to slow. I begin carefully: Sir, I am here for

wood flooring comparison
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