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Crossing the LineAlmost 99.9999% of the comments I get on DA are very nice and complimentary. For this I am grateful and appreciative. I also appreciate the occasional criticism that suggests I try a different crop, color, or lens choice. Even after 35 years I feel it is vital to listen to all the input I get because there are occasional jewels of ideas that come from learned professionals and beginning amateurs alike. Sometimes I even like it more when someone who is new to photography makes suggestions because they aren't stifled by the "rules" we all learn when we start out.
Recently, I've had a few people say some interesting and absurd things. These comments are related to my having taken down my gallery of nudes. First of all, let me say, my motive for this action was simply time management. I run a business so I don't have time to respond to all the comments or even read them all.
The suggestion has been made that by me removing the nudes, by responding to horrid comments then hiding and blockin
Everything is Beautiful...NOT!In the 1960s, Ray Stevens wrote a song titled "Everything Is Beautiful" and it won him a grammy. Perhaps it was the idealism of those times or maybe a personal philosophy that gave birth to this song. It starts out with children singing "Jesus Loves the Little Children", a song I remember singing in church when I was a child.
"Jesus loves the little children
All the children of the world
Red and yellow, black and white
They are precious in His sight
Jesus loves the little children of the world"
Like Disney's "It's a Small World", this song has a worm like infectious tune that rolls around in your brain like a marble in a barrel. A child, once he has learned this song, will hum it, whistle it, and sing it until adult ears bleed. Not only is the tune contagious, the lyrics are ideal and Pollyanna to the point of near myopic blindness.
After one chorus of "Jesus Loves the Little Children", Mr. Stevens' song moves into his "Everything Is Beautiful, in It's Own Way" mantra.
The notion he pu
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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