The New Street Photographer's ManifestoFebruary 7, 2013/by techgnotic
Street photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson called it the “decisive moment”— the captured instant when all the photograph’s elements come together to tell a story in a way a text narrative of thousands of words could never begin to. It is what hooks people, both practitioners and advocate-devotees, on the art form. It is uniquely completely immersive in life— step out into the streets— in which the moment of artistic epiphany can never be guessed at until it suddenly happens. When it is properly mastered, it is as pure as the dawn of each new day, as true as the living organism of a teeming street scene catching a breath as one.
It's no easy task to pull a book together for publication and "The New Street Pho
Mold Greg was cleaning behind his toilet on a Friday when a voice came from within the wall.Mold2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Hey!" the voice said. "Look, I give, all right? I'm coming out!" Greg watched as a stream of black-and-white goo poured out of a crack near where he'd been scrubbing. It smelled of mildew, and, when enough of it came out, formed itself into the shape of a man.
"What are you?" Greg asked, looking up at its globby face.
"I'm the mold that lived behind your toilet," it said, "and I'm here to be your friend."
"Because I didn't develop self-awareness without reason, and you're a loser who cleans his bathroom on a Friday. Get your keys; we're going to the park."
Greg drove. They went to the basketball courts and the mold won in one-on-one against Greg. Twice.
"You need to exercise more," it said. "
lost.Wandering,lost.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
waiting for your voice to
reach out for mine.
Fingertips of satin,
caressing the confines of my
whispering a thousand constellations to my waning sanity.
Promises upon promises,
mosaic labyrinths etched into mutilated
Trembling lips — July's blasphemous sun
lingering above December's intangible moon,
and these looking-glass limbs scream for your
tongue to shatter me into one million
Rose eyelashes; iron thorns and liquid petals
flutter open to the dull luster of our
and in the end, your nebula fades away
in the disintegrating morning, just like my [heart] broken
Why Spirit Day Is Not EnoughPrefaceWhy Spirit Day Is Not Enough3 years ago in Editorial More Like This
This essay was written in October of 2010 after DeviantART released this article supporting the Spirit Day movement to bring awareness to LGBT bullying.
I wrote it because there were so many comments on the official article that were defaming to one group or another that I felt the true issue had been lost in the rhetoric. The point of Spirit Day is to show solidarity and compassion for your fellow human beings. Not gay or straight or ill or handicapped - those categories don't matter. We're just humans, each flawed and each perfect. Spirit Day was an attempt to remind us of that.
I was confronted with two major arguments to this editorial in the original posting. One was that singling out LGBT suicides meant that I was putting more importance on that group than any other. For the purpose of the article, I suppose that's true. Spirit Day focused on LGBT issues, so the article (
Jenga Is a Dangerous GameJenga Is a Dangerous Game2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Oh, please don't use words like "forever" and "always".
I get a little dizzy when you say them,
And my careful, precarious stack of hopes could fall down at any minute.
Though I don't and do wish you wouldn't,
You build it up, nourish it, make it grow
Each time you are kind to me.
Add a block for every smile.
Cause my heart to fly, my soul to sing;
Make me want to dance with you until the music ends...
But please, don't use words like "forever".
My tower is too tall, and I can't afford
To let it collapse on me, too.
Strawberries in the WinterMy momma once said that it was impossible-Strawberries in the Winter2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
That trying to grow strawberries
In a room that murdered light
Was like telling a girl to live without love
Or demanding a fish to breathe midair.
Still, a week later
A pot of dirt found its home
On a desk in that room,
Daring to flirt with the color green.
Everyday a lamp was hit,
Life support was turned on,
And Thoreau was born to fight.
I told myself,
No more would the fat guy need surgery
Just to blend into an ocean of hypocrites
That would tide in and out of his “in security”.
No more would the nerd girl
Need tights that cut her once living legs
Because the boy she’s been watching
Only likes ladies that cost him a dollar,
Possibly fifty cents more
For something he can tell his friends.
No more would the emo boy
Take out wet stained knives
Because people don’t understand that once
A loved one has their face smashed
-Broken against a pavement-
It’s a little bit harder to feel your heart
And all you want is a si
A Whole New SongA Whole New NoA Whole New Song1 year ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
I can show you the world
Shining, shimmering, splendid
Tell me grumpy cat, now when did
You last let your heart decide?
I can open your eyes
Take you wonder by wonder
Over, sideways and under
On a magic carpet ride
A whole new world
A new fantastic point of view
No one to tell us no
Or where to go
Or say we're only dreaming
A whole new No
A dulling place I don’t want to know
But when I’m way up here
It’s crystal clear
That I’m certain I do not want to be here with you
Very certain I do not want to be here with you
Boring, grumbling, wastin’ time,
Through an endless musical scene in the sky
A whole new No
Don’t you dare close your eyes
A hundred thousand things I wish to un-see
Hold your breath- it gets better
I’m not going to hold my breath
Why don’t you
I want to go back to where I used to be
A whole new world
Every turn I want to die
With new horizons to pursue
an exercise in giving upI don’t know what I’m doing in this place.an exercise in giving up6 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
My bones ache to take me away – to take me anywhere but here. But my heart remembers this place and its beat is racing, pumping blood into the far corners of my body, making my limbs too heavy to move. But I want to leave so badly, with every part of my being, but the one. My heart still belongs here…even after all these years.
I don’t remember the last time I saw your face.
But I can tell you that I still hear your voice in my dreams. In the deepest of sleeps, you’re still alive inside of me, deep within the folds of my heart, the dark spaces of my imagination. You’re alive there, even though I know nothing of where you are in reality. I know nothing of you anymore. Maybe that’s for the better. Maybe. Maybe.
I can’t recall the first time that I heard time will make it better.
But I do know that my mom repeats it to me every Saturday when I go to visit her in that old house that’s fu
For Some Reason I Think HomeHe staggered to the ruins, soaked with sweat. Blood dripped into his eyes in crimson rivulets. It was over. He was home now. Fatigue and nostalgia meshed together in a haze of memories and reality. The thick clouds above him blurring and molding together into a dreary gray sky matched his mood.For Some Reason I Think Home1 year ago in Sketches More Like This
How long had it been since he had seen this place: Weeks, months, ages? He ran his hand over the remains of a house wall. The craggy mortar and soft moss beneath his fingers seemed strange. Had this been his home? The toppled chimney behind him was growing a wild garden in the fireplace. Was this really home?
It had been a long journey, there and back again. He had fought and even loved it at times. He had the scars to prove it. He squeezed his arm tighter. More blood seeped through his fingers. The last battle that plagued him was finally over. Disapproval was the only thing that had spared him. The dense air popped his ears, muffling everything but his thoughts.
He ground his teeth at the memo
Shallow WaterIt was just a little kiddie pool in the backyard, unlovely pink-and-yellow plastic under the hot summer sun. But on those nights when Mom came home from the swing shift tired and met Daddy sitting in the kitchen angry, it was Amy’s only sanctuary.Shallow Water1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She wasn’t a sound sleeper. Her parents still talked about how it had taken her infant self six months to sleep more than two or three hours at a time. During the school year, when her life was full of classes and friends and sports, it was easier to drop off, but summer nights were always more difficult. They were hotter, for one thing, and the long, indolent, inactive days often left her feeling too tired to sleep.
But mostly, it was because her parents had their arguments at night, right when Mom got back from the station. Daddy would send Amy to bed -- or at least her room, to pretend to sleep -- hours before. Then he would wait, sitting at the kitchen table and facing the door like a judge, hands folded in front of him
To all the photography lovers out there.Have a look at this short selection of Leonard Freed's New York City Police work (1972-1979).To all the photography lovers out there.1 year ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
And do not forget to keep browsing through magnumphotos.com, where you find gems like these below.
Nyc67213 by noperson
Pax11292 by noperson
Why I Laughed at His FuneralWas dull, as funeralsWhy I Laughed at His Funeral2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It was nothing I could help, the sound of it
left me. And in the moving crowd of black
around collars and scarves and
the formless grays of our town
, bowel movement of black,
broken by a laugh, then two, then
a whole cascade. Who is to say
I wasn’t mad from knowing the truth
or wanting to, not knowing enough?
Bobby Sweethouse died
throwing himself off the school roof.
His mother was the first to collect his remains,
ashamed almost to see
all the mess her boy had made.
Many of my friends had said,
he deserved this for being a queer,
or something along those lines, I’m sure
they could pull whatever they wanted
from a long checklist of things to say,
or spit, or hurl. Words, after all, like these
are pre-prepared, ahead of time.
It wasn’t his fault for being outted.
Or born here, where the cruel earth fought
to make flowers shoot from the ground
only to be crushed by the lightning of words,
sneers, and stares.
I’d like to think he wasn
hauntingly broken , she plays music.The cold air greets me like an old friend, chilling me to my very core. My skin prickles as the foreign gusts settle deep into it. I put on your sweater that hangs by the bedpost – I wrap the blanket tighter around me and it instantly reminds me of your warmth. I miss it – I miss you. I remember that you’d walk close to me – an arm flung around my shoulders – and I’d always – always flick it off – but, you’d simply put it back – because you knew how I thought I warranted that attention – you knew how it was a ploy.hauntingly broken , she plays music.1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
Some days I wonder why you put up with me – why you put up with my constant craving for important – my childish need to feel wanted – to feel special.
It feels so utterly foolish now – every little detail of our life – of our clockwork, mundane schedule. I dulled you out so disgustingly – wasted you away till you were nothing but a mere
Nobody Knew (Bullying Poem)Nobody Knew (Bullying Poem)2 weeks ago in Free Verse More Like This
Nobody knew when the teasing started; the days that formed my life.
Not happy times like your first puppy, or becoming a husband or wife.
No, days which I wish to forget, memories are branded with the hurt.
The days when I was bullied; teased, taunted and treated like dirt.
Nobody knew when the hurt set it, the words so unforgiving and cold.
They hit me with full force and the effects begin to take there hold.
I wanted to fight back, but somehow, I couldn’t find the strength to speak.
This lead to the mocking to increase, meaning all I was was weak.
The names that I was called, horrid and disgustingly untrue.
But that didn’t stop the small group; I let the pain within me brew.
I didn’t want to talk about it, I didn’t want to think that it was a big deal.
Somehow, I had to tell myself, that this whole thing wasn’t at all real.
Nobody knew when I began to cry, the torments building slowly inside.
I had to let it go though, and I released the pain when I crie
LoveHe cannot wait forLove3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
Her words of tenderness and
Grace: so patiently
He will sit near the gateway.
Still, it cannot change she's dead.
A ParenthesisYou were (a parenthesis, that pausedA Parenthesis2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the daily, mundane stuff
a bundled breath
of fresh joy,
and borne in the wonder
Gasping and grasping,
'til in quiet you laid
and I, my Child,
lie in quiet, still
And now, that is all you are,
and still so much more.
001. beginnings.Beginnings are vague things. Quite often you can't pin them down to one event you have to trawl back further and further through foggy past, peeling apart what ifs and untangling strands of memories.001. beginnings.3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Eventually one has to go all the way back to the start of the universe, and that's a question even the experts have to shrug their shoulders at. It's not like you can plug it into a calculator and come out with a balanced algorithm. At least, not yet.
But it is true that sometimes you can fasten down an occurrence or a moment or even just a single breath, like sticking a thumbtack through a dead butterfly, and label it as a 'beginning' in your mind. Identifying that one moment makes us feel secure, like maybe it was destined to happen instead of just being a random sequence of events that fed off each other and tripped over each other and eventually fell like dominoes to the unlikely conclusion.
Cvusscha Mistbane has pinned down a moment. Of course she knows that there are plenty of
To The One That Martyred HerThe Little Matchgirl to Hans Christian Andersen:To The One That Martyred Her2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You sent me a vision of
A feast I could not have
What is a word for
A god with no mercy?
I should have used my matches
To burn the city down
Religion and Computers 2005Religion and Computers 200510 years ago in Humor More Like This
Christianity is Linux
Countless versions exist, with most of them sharing common ideals. Founded on the principle that any person can modify the code in any way they see fit and present it as a competing product. This has resulted in countless distributions vying for space on hard disks. In the West, there has been a drive to reduce the effort needed to install Linux in order to increase its user base. Derived from Unix. Not as popular in English-speaking countries as the developers would like, but spreading fast in the developing world. The decision by American and Canadian Linux distributors to allow homosexuals to contribute to the source code has caused uproar among traditionalists. They insist that while Linus Torvald loves homosexuals, there's no way in hell he'd want them to go anywhere near the source code.
Judaism is Unix
Disciples of Unix can often be seen with large beards. Hard to understand and sometimes eccentric, the followers of this operating system claim
NinjutsuNinja artsNinjutsu8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
1) Shadow clone Jutsu
Ram, Serpent, Tiger
3) Lightning Blade
Ox, Hare, Monkey
Serpent, Boar, Ram, Hare, Dog, Rat,
Bird, Horse, Serpent
1) Fire Ball Jutsu
Serpent, Ram, Monkey, Boar, Horse, Tiger
2) Phoenix Flower Jutsu
Rat, Tiger, Dog, Ox, Hare, Tiger
3) Dragon Flame Jutsu
Boar, Dragon, Hare, Tiger
1) Water Prison
Ram, Horse, Hare, Ram, Horse, Hare
2) Water Dragon Jutsu
Ox, Hare, Rat, Boar, Bird, Ox,
Horse, Bird, Rat, Tiger, Dog, Tiger,
Serpent, Hare, Ram, Serpent, Boar, Ram,
Rat, Ox, Monkey, Bird, Dog, Rat,
Boar, Dog, Monkey, Bird, Dragon, Bird,
Ox, Horse, Ram, Bird (0.0) (That's one long ass jutsu)
3) Water Vortex
Tiger, Ox, Monkey, Hare, Rat, Boar,
Bird, Monkey, Bird, Rat, Ox, Horse,
Dog, Boar, Monkey
Boar, Dog, Bird, Monkey, Ram
Boar, Dog, Bird, Dog, Ram
Another lifetimeAnother lifetimeAnother lifetime2 years ago in Sketches More Like This
The final battle was at its highest point and Hermione was running faster than she ever though she could, Bellatrix was chasing her and throwing curses at her.
She rounded a corner, and tried to hid herself but Bellatrix was right after her and she threw a crusiatuscurse at her and her eyesight blinked and she hit the floor and all her mind could register was pain, enormous pain.
She heard someone yelling the killing curse and her brain told her that this was it; she was going to die, right her, right now. her eyes was shut and she felt something brush her cheek, her eyes fluttered open and met sad silvery eyes staring down at her. Was she in heaven?
One moment later she recognized the eyes, and her environment was slowly being registered in her brain, she was in danger.
She could not move, her body being heavy and powerless, he picked her up and sneaked up towards the Ravenclaw tower, on the way he found an empty classroom and pulled her in and looked the door and put
Here Is No WhyHere Is No Why1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
The bus was late. In the four switches Ben had made so far, he had come to accept lateness as an unavoidable part of this mode of travel. The first three times, he had been irritated. Now, at a little after eleven at night, he really didn’t care. If the bus was at least running, he would be happy. Working air conditioning was a bonus. Timeliness was asking too much.
He wished he could call Mae again, even though he had just talked to her half an hour ago. It had been a little over two weeks since he had seen his fiancée, and hearing her voice helped ease his frustration. But it was late, and she had gone to bed. She would still answer, he knew, and talk as long as he needed, but he didn’t want to keep her up.
Instead, Ben just sat at the little station, staring almost listlessly into his paper coffee cup. He let his mind wander. Of all places, it went to the station’s seating arrangements.
The orange plastic chair wasn’t particularly comfortable, but
An Astronomical Love StoryEmmaline would tell anyone who listened that there was an entire universe inside of her head. There were galaxies in her eyes, and the stars in them were formed in the nebula of her brain. Her mouth was a quasar, surrounding a black hole that would completely consume anything that crossed its event horizon. No one would believe Emmaline, and most avoided her, but she was not lonely because she was a universe unto herself. She contained multitudes.An Astronomical Love Story2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
One day, Emmaline met a boy. "I see galaxies in your eyes," he told her. She opened her mouth, and the light of the quasar drew him in. By the time he realized he was in the grip of the black hole, he struggled, terrified, but he could not escape. For a moment, he felt both stretched and compressed and then *pop*. He was gone, but from Emmaline's perspective, he was there with her forever, slowly red-shifting toward the event horizon.
Oh art thief, oh art thiefOh art thief, oh art thiefOh art thief, oh art thief2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
How you’ve brought us all to grief.
How can you be unashamed?
When you stole from people unnamed
How you think about your own fame
Just like others like you playing that game
How you feed off us
How you live on others success
How can you sleep at nights,
Knowing you infringed other’s rights?
How can you enjoy this fame,
Knowing it rightfully belongs to another name?
Do we also carry the blame
That we blindly follow someone’s claim?
To the people that believe everything humans say
To you I say good day
We must always question what we are told
Or we can start to be controlled
By vicious lies and such
To me that is just too much
As Are Moth-Eaten Clothes Jack says I’ve always got to carry around this machine, big as a TV, with loopy wires coming out of it and wriggling around in my stomach. Sometimes if I’m tired he carries it, or sets it on some wheeler, but most days I’ve got it settled in the crook of my arm or against my hip. It’s hard to play football with the other kids when I’ve got to hold it, and can’t drop it neither. Jack says I oughta be grateful I can run around at all.As Are Moth-Eaten Clothes9 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It’s not too heavy, the machine, it’s just a box with some gooey slush in it and a place on top that flashes numbers in red. Jack checks the numbers every sixty minutes, on the dot, even at night when I’m asleep. He’s awful smart. He says the numbers are my blood pressure and glucose and oxygen and stuff, and there’s one number that’s the estimation numeration of months I’m still functional, and I don’t understand any of it. I