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Final (out of focus) shot of Jocelyn Moorehouse’s 1991 movie Proof
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It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.
(The Winter of our Discontent - John Steinbeck)
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Photo by Iris H.
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
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“There are no words. The one I send home comes out a pukka Englishman, white-suited, silly wig lawyer. The one I keep here is fully paid-up green-bow-tie-wearing fundamentalist terrorist. I sometimes wonder why I bother,” said Samad bitterly, betraying the English inflections of twenty years in the country, “I really do. These days, it feels to me like you make a devil’s pact when you walk into this country. You hand over your passport at the check-in, you get stamped, you want to make a little money, get yourself started… but you mean to go back! Who would want to stay? Cold, wet, miserable; terrible food, dreadful newspapers - who would want to stay? In a place where you are never welcomed, only tolerated. Just tolerated. Like you are an animal finally housebroken. Who would want to stay? But you have made a devil’s pact… it drags you in and suddenly you are unsuitable to return, your children are unrecognizable, you belong nowhere.”
“Oh, that’s not true, surely.”
“And then you begin to give up the very idea of belonging. Suddenly this thing, this belonging, it seems like some long, dirty lie… and I begin to believe that birthplaces are accidents, that everything is an accident. But if you believe that, where do you go? What do you do? What does anything matter?”
As Samad described this dystopia with a look of horror, Irie was ashamed to find that the land of accidents sounded like paradise to her. Sounded like freedom.
“Do you understand, child? I know you understand.”
And what he really meant was: do we speak the same language? Are we from the same place? Are we the same? Irie squeezed his hand and nodded vigorously, trying to ward off his tears. What else could she tell him but what he wanted to hear?
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes.”
(White Teeth - Zadie Smith)
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
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An article sparks an interest, the interest brings out the child in you, the child anxiously awaits the experience only to find… disappointment.
Luckily, disappointment can also be a source of amusement for some. :)
)This is one of my favorite things to do - find interesting images in a mirror, especially when the sunlight joins in on the fun. I can easily do this for hours and completely lose track of time. Go here and here for more of these images.
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Photo by Iris H.
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
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A misleading picture all around. Eyewear courtesy of Fotoflexer.
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Snapshots taken at Praia do Forte in early April from a moving car.
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Mr. Will: Mrs. Spalding?
Edna Spalding: Yes.
Mr. Will: Could I trouble you for a cup of tea?
Edna Spalding: Of course. I’ll put the water on for you.
Mr. Will: Do you mind if I wait in here?
Edna Spalding: Not at all. I’m trying to fix Frank’s shoe. It’s got a big hole in it.
Mr. Will: Mrs. Spalding, can I ask you a question?
Edna Spalding: Yes.
Mr. Will: What do you look like?
Edna Spalding: I have long… long hair and I tie it up in the back. And I have brown eyes. I always wanted to have blue eyes like my mama… but Margaret got those. And my teeth stick out in the front… cause I sucked my thumb a long time when I was a little girl. Well, I’m… no real beauty. I’m all right.
Mr. Will: Thank you
(kettle whistles)
Edna Spalding: Your tea is ready.
(Places in the Heart)
Click here for screencaps.
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This is one of my favorite shots ever. Taken by my dad in CF.
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Faces - Part I
Faces - Part II
A man’s face as a rule says more, and more interesting things, than his mouth, for it is a compendium of everything his mouth will ever say, in that it is the monogram of all this man’s thoughts and aspirations.
(Arthur Schopenhauer)
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