foolmoon's Journals on Buzznet

Too Toddy Ruby

foolmoon — 2008-01-27T20:46:00Z

www.sweeneytoddmovie.com

Wicked, wicked release. Not for the faint-hearted. Maybe not advisable for the depressed, clinically or otherwise. Not for the angry unless you can manage on your own. Not for the unforgiving nor the ADHD-OC mind.

I don't know if the events were too predictable or I'd say its just how closely-patterned my disposition can be to Sweet Sweeney, that I somehow knew what the twists would be or more like how twisted things will get.

Johnny of my 21-Jumpstreet Days. Lovely still. Helena, how can one stop pining for that dove-like seduction? And Tim Burton, dark, sweet-bitter genius puppet-master. He throws a line and reels it all in and just when you thought that that is all there is to it, he tugs at it one more and you get a dear world that is caught by the throat. Revenge oh so sweet and maddeningly funny while you’re at it and then swoosh it goes and you are left soak to your bones. That’s my take to “Never forget. Never forgive.” Something, I just can’t afford to linger in much longer.

My birthstone is ruby but this red scares me. I love meat but would definitely take good care I wouldn’t go learn how to process. And I would have to tell me over and over again, at times, "you're too powerful a person born into this life," but in the same breath, say "too weak at times to hold back a deathwish". There’s so little to differentiate between love and hate. I ought to choose well.

Hey, read between the lines. I love this film even if my stomach didn’t. And will forever remember how with a crease on her forehead, Mrs. Lovett sings to the boy, “Nothing can harm you, Not when I’m around you.” Imagine, I was hit in the guts and it’s my eyes that overflowed.

Prodigal Thoughts

foolmoon — 2007-06-05T23:39:00Z

You who never arrived
rainer maria rilke

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me--the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and un-
suspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods--
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house--, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets
                          that I chanced upon,--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and,
                                startled, gave back
my too-sudden image. Who knows? perhaps
                                                the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening...

---

all this time and crisis after crisis, i thought you've been forgotten
this morning, as i wail in prayer, there you were, while i remain lost in you

And I've Already Been Thinking and Living I Am an "E"

foolmoon — 2006-05-31T06:17:00Z

I took this test when I was in my late teens or early 20s.

To this day, though I still have to understand the difference between Myers-Briggs school of thought and Keirsey's when it comes to personlity types or temperaments, I continue to be amused and amazed by how these theories speak about how interesting a human individul life is. Carl Jung, I can imagine must have had such a ride getting into it all. And oh, I read we share the same (flip)box.

I thought I'd share these as my way of keeping my letters true to life...

Interesting read from
http://www.personalitypathways.com/

Dominant Introverted Intuition
INTJ & INFJ What is it like?

By Danielle Poirier www.RebelEagle.com
© copyright Rebel Eagle Productions

Without introverted intuitives, it is said that Israel would have had no prophets. Under deceptively conventional appearances lie perceptive minds that travel the breadth and depth of universal mysteries, contemplating its multilayered complexity, seeking the trends that will define the future. With time, clarity of vision comes. When it comes, they are propelled towards the vision and all their actions lead to it. They are perseverant behind a quiet exterior and will often come back with their vision long after everyone believes they have let it go.

What they see is so clear and obvious to them they are often surprised to find that others cannot see it as well. They may find it difficult to articulate the necessary steps towards implementation or to explain how each goal fits into the larger picture.

Their mind usually travels from the past to the future, seeking to fit a particular situation in a large context. It picks up patterns, symbols and images from different seemingly unrelated fields, identifies similarities and provides meaning. This can help solve problems by juxtaposing ideas, finding analogies or simply by rooting out the quintessential reality, discovering the origin in universal stories and human experiences, culling wisdom from the infinitely small to the infinitely large. Their mind naturally travels from the microcosm to the macrocosm.

They regularly have to face the difficulties of bringing dreams into reality. The time and effort it takes is always more than what their intuition initially suggested. They are determined, perseverant, inspired and often see things just around the corner, into the near or far future.

And from
http://keirsey.com/personality/nfij.html

The Portrait of the Counselor Idealist (iNFj)

The Counselor Idealists are abstract in thought and speech, cooperative in reaching their goals, and directive and introverted in their interpersonal roles. Counselors focus on human potentials, think in terms of ethical values, and come easily to decisions. The small number of this type (little more than 2 percent) is regrettable, since Counselors have an unusually strong desire to contribute to the welfare of others and genuinely enjoy helping their companions. Although Counsleors tend to be private, sensitive people, and are not generally visible leaders, they nevertheless work quite intensely with those close to them, quietly exerting their influence behind the scenes with their families, friends, and colleagues. This type has great depth of personality; they are themselves complicated, and can understand and deal with complex issues and people.

Counselors can be hard to get to know. They have an unusually rich inner life, but they are reserved and tend not to share their reactions except with those they trust. With their loved ones, certainly, Counselors are not reluctant to express their feelings, their face lighting up with the positive emotions, but darkening like a thunderhead with the negative. Indeed, because of their strong ability to take into themselves the feelings of others, Counselors can be hurt rather easily by those around them, which, perhaps, is one reason why they tend to be private people, mutely withdrawing from human contact. At the same time, friends who have known a Counselor for years may find sides emerging which come as a surprise. Not that they are inconsistent; Counselors value their integrity a great deal, but they have intricately woven, mysterious personalities which sometimes puzzle even them.

Haha they can say that again!
Now your turn...
:)

Peace my heart...

foolmoon — 2006-05-11T07:47:29Z

Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.Let it not be a death but completeness.Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence. I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.

~Rabindranath Tagore

Thank you dear Tintin for letting me in on your thoughts again.
Thank you for letting me find the words to my own thoughts of flight
Of letting be.

For C.
Flying away for now.

He Sees and Speaks My Truth

foolmoon — 2006-04-05T21:49:00Z

I've been in probably every refugee camp in the world and I've seen more people die than mostâ€”from disasters, from war, from hunger. And after a while it got to the point where I could not take it anymore.

Because I become the person I am photographing. Once, during a situation when I was photographing a child dying of starvation, I had to aim the camera and at the same time, turn my head away, because I couldn't deal with it. Their pain. Inside, every time, I was crying more and more, because all I could do is take the damn picture. Just a picture. Though I'm not out to save the world, it was getting to me.

You see, I don't take life too seriouslyâ€” it's a big game. I've seen too many people die not to take it that way. How can I take things seriously I kept putting myself in these situations Not because I wanted to be blown away. I have my own feeling s about survival. When you are in situations like that you must concentrate on what's around you, and that alone. If you're married you don't think about your wife. Or you don't think of your girlfriend. Nine out of ten times I don't do stupid things, like stand up when they shoot. But I've seen others forget, stand upâ€”and that's it. It's about being there. You have to be aware of every moment. Each time I went to a war I said, " Never again." And meant it. I didn't want to die. A couple of lifetimes ago, in the Iran-Iraq war, we were pulling out when the guy before me was killed; the guy behind me was killed and the guy near me had his heart ripped out. Only the cameraman and me weren't scratched. How do you explain these things?

You can't. So I tried to escape it; the portraiture I do now is of political figures, of well-known actors or actresses. It doesn't engage me in the same way; neither does it hurt me. My heart's not being tramped on like it was before; with celebrities it doesn't take anything from you here (holding his hand over his heart). But don't get me wrong. I take it seriously. When I make a portrait of a head of state (and I've photographed maybe sixty of them) my political opinions do not enter into it. I respect who they are, I appreciate their position, and I want them to look good. That's my job. What I'm saying is that their politics don't mean anything to me. Here's one example: Zia, the former Prime Minister of Pakistan, was said by many to be a bad guy. So I was in Pakistan and after I finished the official portrait some magazine had asked me to make, Zia requested, as a favor, that I take a picture of him with his daughter. And then he brought down this twelve-year girl, who was retarded. He was proud of her; he clearly loved her very much. That to me made him a good manâ€”I don't care what his other politics were.

On another occasion I spent several days with Castro and I really liked him â€”he's funny, he's cool, he has great sense of humor and warmth (I mean as a human being here) and we went duck hunting, which is something of an honor. He has a plaque with the names of those he has gone hunting with engraved on it, and with all the Eastern European names and Russian names, I could only see one other U.S. guyâ€”Ted Turner. But because our government says Castro's no good, we're supposed to hate him. It's propaganda, no matter what you say.

And the curious thing is that I know some of those sixty heads of state in a way writers can't, or maybe their own staffs can't. Because with a writer they have to be very careful; every word is measured, calculated, but a photographer is â€¦ harmless. I talked to Anwar Sadat, of Egypt, whom I had a good relationship with, for a long time about the '67 warâ€”I gave him some belated advice about military maneuvers. And he laughed and put his hand on my shoulder. "I had to do what I had to do," he said, talking about whether or not he lost the war, saying that he needed to fight back for Egypt's honor. He was a good man. And when I first met Indira Ghandi I was taken aback. I had some big fat tough woman in my mind, and instead she was dainty, attractive, charming. And I just came out and said, "Madame Prime Minister, you are much more beautiful than your photographs." And she laughed and said, "I think they print all those on purpose."

So portraiture is something I feel connected with. When I photographed the defenders in Speak Truth to Power, there were moments where I could see the photograph, where it really worked as a representation of that person. When I met that the young Burmese activist, Kha Hsa Wa, I didn't know the meaning of his name (white elephant). I just looked at him and thought, "jungle," trying to make a connection to his situation, and asked him to get up on that elephant. In the case of Oscar Arias of Costa Rica, I had photographed him several times before in his role as president of that country and know he is a warm and real person, besides being a leading intellectual and a very bright man. But I took this picture at his home in Costa Rica, to make it about that very personal humanity he has. Bruce Harris is another one, working in Guatemalaâ€”very definitely a real person. We went out at night to this area with ten year-old prostitutes, little girls; the police shoot them to get them off the streets; I couldn't believe it. He took me to the cemetery where some of the street kids he helps were killed by the police and others and have been buried. We spent a few hours there and as we were leaving we walked through a corner we hadn't been to and I said," Christ this is perfect," and took the picture that's in the book. It just worked right awayâ€”I threw the rest of the stuff out. Kailash Satyarthi of India, who frees children from slave labor, was another case in point. I had photographed him before in India and enroute on another trip, as we were passing by, I said, "Let's try a reshoot." So we did, and it worked, because kids hang on Kailash all the time, he's a big, friendly guy.

Because when you are doing portraits of unknown people they have to be interesting enough that people stop and look at them. Abubacar Sultan from Mozambique was the first person I photographed for this book, at the home of Ethel Kennedyâ€”and I felt immediately that the picture was successful, in the sense that it is how Abubacar should look- he's handsome, strong, a true individual. And with the nun from Guatemala who was tortured, such a sweet girl, Dianna Ortiz, we must have 300 other frames where she might look better, but then all of a sudden she looked down, in a private moment of recollection, and that was the picture that was real.

The reality in portraiture is that if the subjects are comfortable they will fall into the best pose on their own. It's going to happen. I never touch anyone, move him or her around, even if there is a hand that looks in between somehow. I just let them find their own space. Something happens between a photographer and a subject and when it happens, they know it, too.

Marina Pisklakova from Russia, who runs the domestic violence hotline, kept saying, "I don't deserve anything, to be singled out for this." Nice woman. We were in my studio on East 11th Street. Suddenly a little ray of light came in and crossed the wall where she was standing and I moved over very quickly before it was goneâ€”that was the picture. We discussed doing environmental portraits from the beginning of Speak Truth to Power- in their own country, in their own place. But after a while it was clear that because of money and time and other constraints, that couldn't happen as we had thought, so we started doing the portraits here and there, wherever. It was complicated, but sometimes things worked amazingly well, in spite of it all.

Such as when I was in Czech Republic doing President Vaclav Havel that morning; I was happy. He had canceled before twice, and I only had ten minutes with him, but even so, I still like himâ€”for what he stands for, for what he's done, and just as a personâ€”I liked him an awful lot. But I was leaving the next morning, when Hungarian mental rights activist Gabor Gombos showed up at midnight. He came up to hotel room and I had him stand in a corner of the room and backlit him â€“ and it actually worked out!

When Kerry told me the story of the government of Algeria looking for Anonymous and that he would be killed if found, the picture to take was obvious. I didn't know it would become the cover of the book and everything. Right away I told them what I wanted to do. I saw the whole picture in my mindâ€“ the Middle East was part of my territory as a journalist from way back. Before we left America, I told my assistant Melissa to find out how to make a hangman's noose, so she downloaded plans from the Internet. I didn't want to take it with me, knotted, in the bag, because, well, it's Algeria. When we got there I went into the souk and I told the shopkeeper I needed a length of black material. "What kind," they asked me. "The kind you use for a bag on someone's head when you're hanging them," I replied, and they all started laughing. So I got my rope, my bag, and started working on the knot. I found the place I wanted in the middle of the desert and we started to photograph. We were over the horizon from anything- the security issue was a big thing. At one point, off in the distance we saw a truck, a semi, and I got really paranoid; we waited until they had passed. I worked fast; didn't want to take long. But the timing was crucial. I wanted it to be high noon for this picture; I wanted the sun to be harsh, and the environment to be primitive and ugly, nothing living, emptiness. It says it.

Words and pictures have a continuing struggle for primacy. In my mind, a person can write the best story in the world; but a photograph is absolute.

Here's my story: in early 1977 I noticed a couple of paragraphs in the New York Times about people escaping from Vietnam. Associated Press had just signed me up with carte blanche to cover the whole world, and complete editorial control. (The first person before or since to get itâ€“that was the deal I made with them.) And I went to the president and said, "Boat people. Here's a story I want to do," and started making calls all through Southeast Asia to AP bureaus to find out more. No one, no country, was letting the refugees land. You couldn't even find out about them. At first, I went back and said the story was impossible to cover. Then I had an idea and got in touch with the Thai Marine police (I knew Thailand very well) who had been shoving the boats right back offshore to certain death. I told them would like to go with them on patrol in the Gulf of Siam. They OK'd it, so we headed for the most likely point in northern Thailand, getting there at 4am when a refugee boat had just pulled in; the Thai authorities were getting ready to cast it off again. It was Thanksgiving Day in 1976. I suddenly asked the Vietnamese if I could go with themâ€” I bought gas and rice â€“ they had no fuel or food. There were forty-nine people aboard that fishing boat, including childrenâ€” in the hold that same day a baby was born. The Thais towed us back out to sea and set us adrift. On that boat, there was no room to lie down, so they all had to sit up straight, waking or sleeping. I cannot describe the despair. There were dramatic pictures of mothers with half-dead children in their arms but something even worse was there. Whenever you go to refugee camps in a war zone where terrible things have happened, where bodies might be stacked up, and disease everywhere, you still find children who gather before the camera with a smile. This was the first time in my life that no child smiled. I called the pictures, "the boat of no smiles." The boat was hardly moving- they didn't even know where to go. Then we were approached by another Thai boat with a megaphone ordering me off at gunpointâ€” they were afraid someone would let them dock knowing there was an American aboard. I had mixed feelings about getting off. I wrote the story and sent the pictures immediately, and they ran. Peter Arnett did a story also and a few others. Within a couple of days the administration asked the AP to present the photos to Congress. And Carter said let them come to America. The Congress had been thinking about it, sure, but the pictures did it, pushed it over. To me that was the only thing I ever done that I cared about, valued. Pictures do work, at least sometimes. They carry conviction. Go back to the pictures in Speak Truth to Power and you can look at them in another way. These people, those faces, are the person next door. These are real people, and the pictures prove that no one made this upâ€” they are the evidence that they exist. Ordinary people, doing extraordinary things.

--Interview by Nan Richardson October 2, 2000, New York City

Article Source
http://www.pbs.org/speaktruthtopower/hr_eddie.htm

Photo Credit and another good article
www.nis.wvu.edu/2002_Releases/WarPhotogs.htm

From this Busy Creature

foolmoon — 2006-04-01T01:12:00Z

Happy April Fool(moon)'s Day !

Today I officially start my new life.

Traveling to a new environment tomorrow.

New pictures after then, I hope :)

And thank you FRMP.

Inspiration from a boy named Chip Wareing

foolmoon — 2006-03-05T05:19:34Z

Giraffes, how did they make Carmen? Well, you see, Carmen ate the prettiest rose in the world and then just then the great change of heaven occurred and she became the prettiest girl in the world and because I love her.

- Excerpt from KENNETH KOCH’S Rose, Where Did You Get That Red?

The Ninth Month

foolmoon — 2006-02-21T09:34:00Z

May my love be free…

To know no bounds and yet know its place.

To listen to its merits and understand and forgive its faults.

To take it as it is and as my own and deny not its sweetness nor its power.

To melt with it like a child embraced by tenderness.

To rejoice in its past and remembering and to be totally present to its surprises and visits.

To allow the leaving and grief as necessary and then to heal everyday to prepare for another meeting and yet another leaving.

To stand witness to the truths of that loving, taking that which expands the horizon and sealing with prayers and kiss that which has to be sent to flight.

To know that should it find its way back, it is no longer a stranger and that it deserves a place to stay.

To dance with abandonment and yet with both the graceful and wild rhythms of my soul.

To prepare for a feast for those I love and fill our cups with each others’ thanksgiving.

To feed the hunger and bittermost of absences.

To be happy in knowing my gift has been taken in and returned with as much.

To allow myself to be possessed by love’s grace knowing and trusting it will not desire for my death but will grant a life beyond my limited expectations.

May my heart be faithful..

To the trust that has been placed before me—to care for, respect, and cherish.

To the love that has been allowed to take place in my soul.

To the infinite grace that has been borne out of longing and waiting in vain, in despairing.

To the One whose faithfulness can be depended on to cover my own.

/15th of September

16th of October * Cenacle Retreat House

Sick Me?

foolmoon — 2006-01-13T03:49:00Z

What's wrong this time?

I keep logging in just to see my newly layouted BN blog.

Mostly white space, mid-tone gray to black text, no extra lines to separate or border elements and that oh-so-delightful band of turquoise blue...

Oh please let me stare at it for all eternity.

This is really wrong.

Just for Today

foolmoon — 2006-01-04T01:54:00Z

Rollingstones

PAINT IT BLACK

I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
I see a line of cars and they’re all painted black
With flowers and my love both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a new born baby it just happens ev’ry day
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and it has been painted black
Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts
It’s not easy facin’ up when your whole world is black

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the settin’ sun
My love will laugh with me before the mornin’ comes

I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
Hmm, hmm, hmm,...
I wanna see it painted, painted black
black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky
I wanna see it painted, painted, painted, painted black
Yeah!