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Wednesday, January 31st, 2007
8:44 pm - first post :D

eugenicdiabetic

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Friday, August 11th, 2006
11:37 am

finsandpearls
He takes the headphones away and strokes
her hair as if it is strands of gold,
his lips tickle slightly, she nuzzles
his cheek into her neck.

As if they were stars,
as if they had days,
as if time was being passed
back and forth between their
soft and wild lips.

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Friday, April 14th, 2006
4:36 pm

pinkglittergun
this is a picture i took in her bathroom.

she's sitting on the edge of the bathtub, her mouth open slightly, staring cross-eyed into the mirror as she puts on another coat of mascara. her red lipstick is slightly smudged at the corner of her mouth and her pale forehead is crinkled in a frown. she looks like snow white - white skin, red lips, black black hair. she doesn't think she's pretty, in photos or real life but i know she is. i took this picture to prove it.

the edges of her face are a little blurred, spotted with light. she looks lovely, and forlorn, and lonely. i wish she didn't feel lonely 'cause i'm just next to her, just out of sight, capturing her in a picture. we're both in our own worlds.

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Monday, January 30th, 2006
8:55 pm - Frost & Forgetfulness

0olong
Today,
the world is encrystalled
in sparkling white complexity
slow-melting in the low gold sun
and I
have forgotten
to put the card in my camera.

(cross-posted from my own journal)
(hello, by the way, hadn't heard of this community till someone commented on the original post)



current mood: silly

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Friday, January 6th, 2006
2:42 pm - Snap!

anchovie
I have to take a photo, because you're not here. I take a photo. I take lots. None of them look quite like what I see!! This is a boring photo and maybe this photo is it, is me. It is me, I am drinking tea.

I try to send it to you, but you are not in your house - you are out in the Green of Life. The photo sits in your letterbox, wishing it was buried under a hedgerow for you to prize out with keen fingers. From where I am sitting, I cannot send you a beautiful picture of the Green of Life; besides, you can see everything better for yourself; you don't need me.

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Friday, December 16th, 2005
5:16 pm - first attempt. i'm scared. hold me!

pinkglittergun
snap!

i took this photo when i was leaving his house for the second time. i'd just kissed him goodbye and he's smiling at me from the bed. he has sex hair which i thought was just sooo adorable. he looks sleepy and rumpled and a little like an angel, if angels could be found lounging naked in bed on sunday mornings in new zealand. the sunlight is shafting through the parted curtains and highlighting his pale face, picking out individual strands of bright, bright yellow in his messy, greasy hair. he looks like a minature sun himself. sun in his hair and sun in his smile as he blows me a sleepy kiss goodbye. i'm sure that if i was in the photo, too, our smiles would match. why wouldn't i smile? it was the best day ever.

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Thursday, September 22nd, 2005
4:42 pm

kymara
The canal between Edinburgh and Glasgow curves on the right and urban decay
sprawls to the left. The setting sun has given the sky a roseglow so that
the sandstone of hills and crags which I still don't know the names of is picked out.
An aeroplane becomes a pink dagger.There's noone else on the path to see it but
I think it's beautiful so I record the image to share later.

I'm new - found via Looper - hello everybody.

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Sunday, September 4th, 2005
4:59 pm - this is my first ink polaroid

fingeravtrykk
I took this picture at the metro station.

I could only capture the outline of the short, ragged man looking at me, asking for a cigarette.
He thanked me for saying no in a polite manner. It was the middle of summer, but he was still sporting a woollen cap which he straightened. He stroke his short, gray beard, and proceeded to tell me his life story. A story of being in all the right places at all the wrong times. He painted a picture for me in my head, before he touched my shoulder, called me princess, and made me promise to take care of myself.

He called me beautiful and said that if he had been younger and richer, he would have asked me to marry him. But he said he was old and poor, and that there were laws against people like himself marrying princesses.

The polaroid is dark and out of focus.
His face is illuminated from the lights of the train approaching, the picture blurred;

my hands unsteady from vertigo and emotion.

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Wednesday, August 24th, 2005
12:01 am

isom
+ I took this one through the bus window while it was drizzling outside. The bus had stopped to pick up a passenger right in front of a gas station converted into an autobody garage. The sky is grey, and the white building is small with little green potted plants where gas pumps used to be. Like the trim of the building the pots are randomly painted red, white and blue. The sign at the top of the little building reads "American Dent or Detail" in cheap, painted letters. Water from the hard rain before drains in strings from the lack of a roof gutter. By the lack of cars and turned-off lights, it looks like nobody is there, neither customer nor mechanic, for either dent or detail work. After I took the picture and the bus pulled off for the rest of the splashy ride, I kept thinking about dents and details. And much like that tiny, empty buidling, I started thinking about all the dents in my life and how those are the details that make me. I stare down at the scars on my hands, feel the bump in my nose, hear my heart and breath beating slightly off center, off beat, and know, as evident by that tiny, empty building with patriotic, potted plants no mechanic or garage can or even needs to fix what is both body and spirit mine, dented and detailed mine.

x. isom

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Friday, August 12th, 2005
2:30 am

isom
+ Ink Polaroid

I took this one in the Children's Department at my bookstore earlier tonight. Loren, the Children's bookseller, is sitting down at a small table (for tykes) with a little boy in a striped shirt who is standing up next to her. The boy came up to me and asked me if I could find his mom for him, because she must have "moved shelves" and he lost her, looking very serious for a five year old. Loren is nodding her head in the picture and the little boy is reciting his cell phone number and telling Loren that his mom's name is Blainesmith and she is tan with dark hair and just came back from Newjork. He looks calmer after I paged his mom. Loren has a stuffed unicorn in her hand that is all glittery white and looks like a lap dog. The little boy keeps staring at the unicorn while he talks and Loren is smiling. He must be thinking about his mom and the unicorn at the same time, smiling with his mouth half closed, worrying with his eyes half open. Loren the same.

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2:11 am

isom
+ Stuart David (from B&S and Looper), "creator" of ink polaroids has a brand new website for ink polaroids and ink movies. Check it out!

http://www.inkpolaroids.com/

<3 isom

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Monday, July 11th, 2005
10:16 pm

acheslikerogue
click.

this is a picture i almost didn't take.
her hands down, almost touching everything. you can see her spine through her face and she's been telling me how it hurts, like an old burning motel, knowing that after this there will be only ashes; after this no one will remember it. she's been telling me this and i focus on the wall behind her. my room is tidy, for once. this is a picture of a wall, of a burning motel and of how all i could think was my feet are cold.

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Thursday, February 24th, 2005
12:29 am - Boyfriend

anchovie
It was taken in this town's sister town. Somewhere; a college bar out of town.
He is looking at the camera with a smug grin; he has captured the Mona Lise smile and then let it slide with an inch of pride. Tip of nose and cheek wear light. Shirt-collar and cuffs white and gleaming under untight thin navy sweater. Shoulders slouched but not slumped. Arm crossed comfortably into the crook of the right elbow, the drink-bearing arm (coke, maybe rum). Fingers crooked around the glass, the index much closer to the rim than the others; glass raised, mid-action? But a full focus on the phone's camera. This is how she recognisea him; not shy but conscious; not vain but self-conscious; not self-conscious, no - hesitant.

She is paused for hours over the delete button. A stolen photo and a boy who knows she cares, she hopes, but a boy unknown. Can she read him? Can she even recognise him? The photo is a reminder for the long periods when he drops the odd line, missing her. Poor blonde, now she cannot sleep for staring. This is a polaroid of her. She is shy, conscious, vain, self-conscious. She is not made of his stuff and does not really know him. She gives him the same name the others use for theirs. He, who is not there. He, who she hardly knows, who never turns up in her dreams, at her door, never calls yet cares. The name she gives him is not enough to mean lover, darling, sweetness, angelface, babyhair, Valentine. But he won't give it back.

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Wednesday, January 14th, 2004
12:06 am - for visual philosophers of the photographic realm, namely of the polaroid persuasion
halfwhitetrash

danab; polaroid community; join.
Sunday, December 28th, 2003
5:26 pm - don't let the inkpolaroids die!

maliceinchains
snap!


Eight years old, I awake on the top bunk of my bunkbed. Still sleepdrunk, I hear the old stereo sounds of horns and singing coming from the record player two walls away. Yellow forceful lights make my eyes sore and I wonder why I always wake up before Sarah does...
The song being played is about sunshine and someone's "baby", and I decide it's better than waking up to Air Supply...again. I know my mother is walking around the house cleaning and cheerful, and she knows somehow that right now I have woken up, and is waiting for me to curiously poke my head out of my room and inspect the lps. The climb down from the bunkbed is precarious.

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Sunday, September 21st, 2003
5:24 pm - *snap*

anchovie
I suppose it was a stupid photo to take. In church, either people are talking, or looking with irritating human curiosity into the lens. So I don't know why they saw her face in between a hundred backs of heads.
She was walking so fast down the side-aisle in a pair of flipflops. She had a thumb-painted oil cross on her forehead, and thin trails of tears on her cheeks. Her face, unlike the usual peaceful spirit-taken weepers, was painful to see, painful to feel forming on your own face. It was a stretched latex mask, so normal and yet alive with the agony of one in torment. It was a worn face, and it fitted, although you could never have seen it before. Before, she'd saved it for the cell of inside her private room, and she had worn it alone for a miserable gown.
But God had seen it. And He saw her, running down the side aisle by the gallery of the familiar congregation, and He had known all along it would come to her in front of all these people. He watched her hurry into the bathrooms, lonely, and comforted, and anoited with a healing hope.

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Thursday, August 7th, 2003
10:54 am

anchovie
**CLIC**
I have a pearl in my ear. I changed the piercing after 12 weeks. It's easy to measure time again your body when you have piercings done; you plan something to look forward to. I had the same spot done as my friends, at the same time, so we plan coffee and shopping around our first earring shopping opportunity.
I liked the pearl. Before, it had been the most miniscule clear glass stud. It wasn't diamond. It was ringed by ignorant late-day gold. The pearl, however, rang with Shakespeare. Romeo likens his love to a pearl in an Ethiopean's ear. Macbeth says it's the only good thing in the kingdom. Puck's song sings, "I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear."
I liked what Clare said, in Six Feet Under, when she was madly stoned, about every word, every movement being a piece of art. Now, perhaps I am being pretentious as fuck. Maybe I'm only doing it to annoy you. I'm not sure, I just like the way words sound when you tickle them, or hold them up above your head.
I look a little bored, I think. But I remember, I wasn't.
-Ellie, x

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Saturday, April 12th, 2003
1:19 am - 3pm

mes_mutations
**click**
this was taken in the middle of the afternoon. i was actually quite sore from my shoulder, it's giving me a hard time. i'm asleep. yeah, i admit it. i fell asleep to the TV. i'm sort of curved in a ball, and i think that my purple t-shirt doesn't look bad on me. it's the first time i'm wearing it, i just bought it. my hands are sort of covering my face, i really don't know why. and my hair is in a bun. my hair is sooo long these days. my green pants are kind of summery and since we are in the middle of fall, i'm covering my feet with some random piece of clothing i had there on my bed. that calendar on the back is the SNOOPY calendar i bought last july. it's really cute, and that hat on the wall next to it? i exchanged it. it's from colombia. and i HEART it.

current mood: sleepy

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Wednesday, April 9th, 2003
11:36 am

eudaimon
Just thought that I'd post this here, by way of introduction:

A picture that I took holding the camera chest high, while standing in front of the bathroom mirror. The flash has made a slight glare at the edge of the picture, but I'm not sure that it matters...it makes it look a little like there's something else in the picture with me, like one of those pictures that people say has an angel or a ghost, if you believe in that sort of thing. The mirror frame is hammered silver, big and square, balanced on the basin, since nobody's had time to hang it. And there I am, reflected in the mirror, with the camera clasped to my breast. I look tired. This picture was taken at around 3.00am, so it's little surprise. I am not smiling - I do not smile in pictures. My hair, black in the reflection, just barely curls against my cheek, which seems very pale. My glasses have sparked with the flash, and so you cannot see where I'm looking. There is something unsettling about this picture, lit from behind, with a spark of flash. Something distorting.

Ruth

current mood: drained

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Tuesday, April 8th, 2003
8:57 pm - INK POLAROID: Stinging blister and ring givers.

isom
INK POLAROID 04.08.2003.01

+ I took this one today after I woke up, and it's really dark. Thanks to the big flash, you can see a close up of my right hand, fingers spread out and palm up. There are these lumpy hominey colored callouses right where the four thick, long fingers start, but in the middle of my palm is a dime sized blister which had busted open during the night. I tried to cover it with some of that liquid band-aid stuff, but it just burnt and looks like glossy paint over a flat, tiny cherry. You can't see my teeth gritting, but they are.

I got that sore from shoveling out a ditch yesterday. Later on I found out from my father that I was just holding the shovel incorrectly. Sheesh. Oh, yeah. I should mention that silver ring with Viking waves on it. The flash sure did light it up bright and white. Becky gave that ring to me 12 years ago when she came back from San Francisco; and even though I don't see her anymore, I still love her... like I now love that stinging blister.

~ Isom

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